


just a dead man walking

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Major themes of Depression, Period-Typical Homophobia, Phillip has Daddy Issues, Please read ahead with discretion., Some minor hints of Lettie/Constantine., and suicide, feature strongly throughout the first half.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14070681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: "His heart aches, as it hasn't for months on end, because Phillip refused to permit it to. It aches and Barnum offers to cure that aching.These are dangerous, damning words. Nothing can cure Phillip's aching. Nothing short of meeting the end shared by so many tortured artists."





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> In being the terrible, horrible sadist that I am, forever attracted to the underlying tragic components of the characters I love, I noticed, right away, that Phillip is a PG, family friendly alcoholic, with subtext pointing toward him being repressed in a variety of ways, and hinting at just a bit of depression to top the whole messy cocktail off. 
> 
> It wasn't until I discovered [this picture](http://boltonevans.tumblr.com/post/171731260908), and my awful, awful mind interpreted it as Phillip standing next to a noose, that I took the idea and ran wild. 
> 
> Bear in mind that the tags are not to be taken lightly. This work deals heavily with themes of depression, death, and suicide, and I don't want to potentially trigger anyone. If any of these could prove upsetting for you, you are absolutely welcome to skip this story. Your safety comes first.

 

 

_Numb_. That's what he wants to be. He wants to burn everything away. Drown it. Drown it _all_ like his head and his heart within the well of misery stretching on, endless, for fathoms immeasurable, inside of him.

His heart fell down that well _years_ back, his head following not long after, and they have yet to resurface. It's quite likely they never will. And, when that well overflows, spilling and seeping into the rest of him, soaking him through, Phillip Carlyle supposes that he, himself, will never resurface, either.

Perhaps it would even be for the best if he _remained_ at the bottom, sadness flooding his lungs like water, choking him with every futile gasp for air.

Whisky, bourbon, Scotch, champagne **…** They burn almost as bad going down as they do coming back up, but the burn cauterizes and numbs until the jagged edges of his misery are sanded down to dull nubs that prick rather than stab.

It's as close to comfort as Phillip knows in his life of tedium and monotony.

Parties that have him seeking refuge in a glass. Plays that are lauded by critics despite having not even a dying gasp of inspiration woven into their prose. The suffocating expectations of his parents and the insular society surrounding them to live up to a legacy he never asked to have thrust upon him. Repressing his interest in the male form that has long surpassed fleeting fancy and artistic appreciation, and coming up with a plethora of ever-changing excuses to explain away his curious status as a bachelor at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. They all blend together, compounding, until he's smothered under their combined weight.

Drink doesn't make them go away. Indeed, these woes and the stranglehold they have on Phillip are very much still there when his mind is dragged from oblivion by daylight obligations. But, every shot, every sip, every tumbler, flute, flask, and glass consumed bring him closer to a feeling of detachment. He can laugh, he can smile, he can have not a care in the world when there is more liquor in his veins than blood.

After all, these problems are not _drunk_ Phillip's. They're _sober_ Phillip's. And, sobriety, as far as Phillip is concerned, is nothing more than a temporary state of being.

When the intoxicated giddiness fades away, taking the buoyant fizz coursing through his bloodstream and the soft edges and muted sounds and colors with it, that's when the water level of the well begins to rise. At an alarming rate.

Everything around him becomes dark, cold, and gray. His isolation and lack of a proper place in the world are never more pronounced as the misery laps against his chest, climbing up his throat.

This is the state of mind that Phillip finds himself in when he's standing outside on the steps of the theater where another one of his plays selling the audience soulless "virtue" is opening, and a confident, mellifluous baritone sails into his ears.

"Mr. Carlyle?" His surname, his _father's_ name and all of the baggage that comes with it, has never sounded quite so pleasant to Phillip's ears.

But, the speaker is, of course, a _man_ , and Phillip isn't supposed to be paying any mind to the maddening flutter in his stomach incited by the masculine and all of its mystique, so he keeps his focus on his flask. The cool metal in his hand is familiar, and safe in its familiarity. He relies on it to keep him grounded as the world tilts on it axis beneath his feet.

"Did you produce this play?" That voice asks; charming, with just a hint of an appealing and unplaceable accent.

Sober Phillip would try to figure out the origin of that accent, intrigued by the mystery of it for no more than a moment before he laughs it off as entirely insignificant. Sober Phillip would calmly and cooly handle this minute deviation from his routine and send the man on his way.

Drunk Phillip slurs out, "Yes, I did. Indeed. Refunds are available at the front box-office."

The man's response is a hearty laugh that stirs a reaction in Phillip's chest.

Phillip considers pulling the flask from the interior of his overcoat and downing another mouthful in order to quiet the wretched, unwanted emotion. Drunk Phillip is no saint. He is selfish and irresponsible, and prone to leaving messes for sober Phillip to clean up. But, drunk Phillip has enough of his wits about him to know that being reeled in by warmth and humanity, no matter how pleasant and enticing they may appear, that _letting his guard down_ , would be a terrific mistake. 

It must be in Fate's cards to turn Phillip into Fortune's Fool, however, because the humbug providing him with unsought company offers a hand to him and declares himself to be, "P.T. Barnum."

_From the Circus_. The notorious display of a variety of aberrations. The scandal of the century. One big enough to take attention away from Phillip's indiscretions.

Phillip's mouth falls open, dumbstruck, his flask and the security of the bitter ambrosia within forgotten as he raises his eyes to meet the curator of this forbidden show, this bold and brazen defiance of the standards of the world around them. Immediately, he knows that he is _doomed_ , because P.T. Barnum is appallingly, staggeringly, _undeniably_ attractive.

The gleam dancing like fire behind Barnum's dark eyes, the arch of his brows, the downturned tip of his grand nose, and an assured smirk lined with teeth that glint bright white under the street lamps. He cuts a tall, imposing figure, made all the more arresting by the top hat perched upon his head. His presence _demands_ attention, and Phillip cannot avert his eyes.

As soon as his hand slips into Barnum's firm grip to return the handshake, Phillip feels talons of intrigue sink into his skin, hooking into it, and his subsequent resistance is nothing more than a front.

A front intended to deflect from the heat pooling in Phillip's stomach at Barnum's attempts to seduce him with promises of freedom. The frightening reminder of his own life pulsing and racing within his chest at the older man's fierce power and passion, and the heat simmering under Phillip's skin where Barnum's hands have touched him. His heart aches, as hasn't for months on end, because Phillip refused to permit it to.

It _aches_ and Barnum offers to cure that aching.

These are dangerous, damning words. Nothing can cure Phillip's aching. Nothing short of meeting the end shared by so many tortured artists.

But, Barnum entices him, his promises alluring as the man, himself, and more shots make it easier to agree to work for Barnum as his "overcompensated apprentice". Why, Phillip even smiles and feels _excited_ about the prospect.

Excitement. An emotion foreign to Phillip as joy.

Then, he stumbles over his own feet and falls against Barnum's solid chest.

Phillip's subsequent laughter is forcibly expelled from his throat over the roar of his heartbeat and the blood pulsating in his temples; a facade carefully constructed to conceal the shame roiling within.

Hired to join the circus. He doesn't even have an _act_. And, though he has made a name for himself by purveying an assortment of "oddities"… Barnum doesn't need to be enlightened to how much of a _freak_ his newest hire truly is. 

"I believe you've overdone it, Mr. Carlyle," Barnum says, his tone unrelentingly buoyant. Phillip believes he sees the faintest of creases forming over the older man's brow line, but his vision is swimming in and out and the world is spinning under him, so that matter is of no consequence.

"'Overdone it'," Phillip quotes, a snorting and undignified laugh escaping him. His mouth twists into a bitter smile. "That would require me actually putting _effort_ into something." He paws uselessly at Barnum's waistcoat, trying to give himself leverage to pull himself upright.

Barnum laughs and reaches out, steadying Phillip. His mere touch ignites the makings of a fire under Phillip's epidermis. "I think I'd better call for a carriage and get you home."

Phillip shakes his head, slapping on a smile, and grabs for another shot glass. Barnum signals the barkeep, somehow, and the man quickly clears the countertop, causing Phillip to bite at his lower lip in dismay. "Oh, _come on_ , Barnum," he whines.

"You have definitely had enough." Barnum, in a fluid whirlwind of movement, places Phillip's top hat back on his head, drapes Phillip's scarf around Phillip's neck, and lays Phillip's overcoat on his shoulders, then dons his own hat and retrieves his own scarf and overcoat, folding them over a crooked arm.

Attempting to track the man only further blurs Phillip's vision, but… something inside of Phillip melts, softens, dulling the perpetual ache. Since being pulled into P.T. Barnum's orbit, Phillip has not once toyed with the idea of throwing himself into the Hudson River.

Barnum leads Phillip out of the bar, Phillip not resisting, unbelieving that he can, into the chilled night air, and, true to his word, hails a carriage. He stands behind Phillip as Phillip climbs inside, confused, reeling, and half-convinced that he is living out some strange and absurd dream. In his distracted daze, Phillip staggers and nearly trips, once again, only for Barnum's strong grip on his shoulder to keep him upright. 

 This man who has known Phillip for hardly more than few hours is not judging or castigating him, not echoing the words of Phillip's father; _"Stand up straight. Heaven's sake, Phillip, pull yourself together. You besmirch our family name."_

 He is, instead, showing Phillip undue _kindness_.

A lump rises, constricting Phillip's throat. "This is out of the way for you, isn't it?" He asks quietly.

Barnum drops into the seat beside Phillip and lifts his shoulders in a care-free shrug. "An occasional detour from a man's set path is necessary. One might even say that it's good for you."

"You are unlike anyone I've ever met, Mr. Barnum," Phillip marvels, his eyes roaming over the showman, drinking in everything that they can, determined to commit his striking features to memory.

" _That_ is a _compliment_ , Mr. Carlyle." Barnum's lips twitch into his now familiar roguish smirk. "And, one I'm quite proud to receive." His eyes lock on Phillip's, a tantalizing, near _teasing_ spark in their dark depths.

Phillip's tongue pokes out of his mouth to lick at his upper lip, and his hands clench at the seat beneath him as he resists the urge to latch onto Barnum and get just a _taste_ of his smirking mouth and the whisky still clinging to his lips and tongue.

Barnum informs Phillip that he expects to see him at the circus during its evening show, tomorrow. "Be prompt, Phillip," he instructs. "We have a lot of ground to cover." As Phillip exits the carriage, the events of the night swirling through his mind, Barnum leans out the window to call after him, "And, get some sleep. You'll need it, as you're going to have a hangover straight from Hell, come morning."

It's a remark made in jest at Phillip's expense, and Phillip nearly fires back that it _is_ morning. But, Barnum's parting words are also the closest anyone has come to expressing genuine concern for him. He ruminates over this right up until the moment the welcome blackness washes over him while he's draped haphazardly on his sofa, wondering at the back of his mind if _this_ detour _could_ be good for him.

It seems impossible, but, just _maybe_ …

 

.v.

 

Anne Wheeler is, by far, the most stunning woman that Phillip has ever beheld. Her eyes, not as dark as Barnum's, but an alluring liquid brown that he could gaze into until he's gotten himself lost in their depths, the sweet scent- jasmine, lilies- that follows her everywhere she goes, the proud, elegant manner in which she carries herself. Both in and out of costume, amongst a sea of stars, her radiance is matched only by Barnum's.

Who is a force of nature entirely of his own making with his effortless command of the ring as he prances and struts about it, and his signature coat trimmed with gold gildings and accoutrements and crafted from the finest silken fabrics in the most vibrant and evocative shade of red imaginable. He captivates and bewitches every audience, leaving them spellbound and eager for more.

And, Phillip, himself, is absolutely not an exception.

Too often, Phillip wonders who he wants more; breathtakingly brave and brilliant Anne, or audacious and atypical and maddeningly alluring P.T. Barnum. Each and every time, this pondering leads him to only one conclusion: he is not worthy of either of them. Barnum has a sweet and loving wife, and two precious daughters, and Anne's fearlessness does not deserve to be hindered by the advances of a very possibly _defective_ coward.

So, Phillip lingers on the sidelines, resigning himself to simply observing as Anne, Barnum, and the rest of the circus company dominate the world around them and illuminate it with color, sound, and sights beyond comprehension. Fever dreams made real.

The joy extended to the audience stops short of Phillip, not even so much as licking at the soles of his shoes. Thus, he also resigns himself to an existence plagued by hopeless what ifs as he sleeps in a cold and much too empty bed, and to visions of his lifeless corpse washing up on some far-off shore filling his mind with distressing frequency.

Frankly, it was naive, foolish, and pathetic of him to expect anything else. Minor detours may treat a man to a pleasant change of scenery, but their effects on his life, overall, are meaningless and insignificant as Phillip's "virtuous" plays.

 

.v.

 

"Has your stomach finally decided to ease up on you?" Barnum's voice cuts into Phillip's reveries as Phillip leans, listless, over the railings bordering the upper deck of the ship, peering into the fathoms below.

"For the moment," Phillip replies, a dry smile quirking the corners of his mouth. Upon setting sail, he was struck almost immediately with a bout of seasickness that had him vomiting just about every five minutes into the bathroom sink of the cabin he shared with Barnum.

The showman offered him brief respite by rubbing at his back and recounting tales that Phillip was certain were heavily embellished to the point of being more fable than fact, but he listened. enraptured, anyway. Barnum's voice settled his stomach, calming the tempest roiling within it, and Phillip would be lying if he claimed that his sleep was not aided by his boss's presence and proximity.

Having Barnum on the bed nearby, the mere knowledge of another living being in the room with him, lead Phillip to a state of restfulness that has evaded him longer than he cares to think on. One he could only hope to reach by drinking himself there.

Their meeting with Queen Victoria had gone surprisingly well, Charles Stratton inciting peals of delighted, raucous laughter that, as Barnum later murmured conspiratorially into Phillip's ear, "this congregation probably hasn't experienced since the creation of tea bags".

It was enough to make Phillip snort into his wine glass as he stifled his own laughter.

Barnum's resulting smirk confirmed that he hadn't missed the effect of his quip.

The only real hitch, at least as far as Phillip was concerned, was Barnum's introduction to the Swedish opera singer, Jenny Lind. As soon as he felt Barnum's hand at his back, steering him toward Ms. Lind, Phillip was suddenly attuned to the inner machinations of the older man's mind, and he just _knew_ that another wild idea was being hatched. He saw the glint in Barnum's eye, the smirk already unfurling across his face as he seized the opportunity to claim another prize for his steadily expanding collection.

And, something about Barnum's interest in Jenny set off warning bells in Phillip's head, and made his stomach clench with an unease that had nothing to do with seasickness.

Barnum takes up a place beside Phillip, staring out over the ocean, rather than down, into its waters. "I always fancied the idea of sailing," he says.

Brows elevating curiously, Phillip turns to regard him. "Did you?"

"Yes," Barnum declares, grinning. "The sea is one of the last unexplored frontiers on Earth. Who knows what could be lurking beneath its depths, what wonders defying imagination are just begging to be discovered and catalogued by a man daring enough to explore the ocean floor? And, of course, the honors to be bestowed upon the man who makes these discoveries. I imagine he would be commended for some time, possibly even awarded a medal for his contributions." His voice brims with his ambition and drive to elude the sloth and security of comfort, excel far beyond any constraints.

Phillip is taken by it. A smile tugs at his own lips.

"How about you, Phillip?" Barnum looks to him with a mischievous glimmer in his eye. "Is there the heart of sailor hidden behind that prim and proper appearance?"

Phillip's laugh is closer to a scoff. "I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, but my horizons have never extended beyond a pen in my hand, and a bottle of the finest bourbon money can buy."

Barnum clucks his tongue. "Pity," he remarks. "A stunning and wealthy young man like yourself should be living his life to the fullest. Not confining himself to the smallest and narrowest restrictions society can dream up."

Heat fills Phillip's cheeks. _Stunning_. Phineas Barnum thinks him to be… "Have you ever looked at the sea and imagined sinking to the very bottom of it?" He asks before he can stop himself.

He feels more than sees Barnum stiffen, watches the bobbing of the older man's Adam's apple.

"Phillip?" Barnum queries. He fixes Phillip in a stare that both intensifies the scorching heat in Phillip's cheeks, and makes all of the blood rush out of them.

His stomach flipping and churning and working itself into hopelessly tangled knots, Phillip forces his mouth to form a close approximation of a smile. "It's a rhetorical question," he manages. He swallows, his throat tight, as though gripped in a vise. "Entirely hypothetical."

Barnum nods, but lines are creasing his forehead, Phillip is certain of it, this time, and Barnum's eyes are filled with innumerable questions that Phillip cannot bear to answer. "I certainly hope that it is," he says quietly.

Phillip wishes that any assurance he could offer wouldn't be an outright lie.

 

.v.

 

Anne's rejection, her fear of the judgement the world outside of the walls of the circus will cast upon them, and of being abandoned because of it, cuts Phillip as deeply as his inability to talk Barnum out of a tour that is doomed from the outset.

Barnum is risking everything on a gamble; a rash, impulsive, and completely crazy idea that ensures that he won't see a penny of profit until his forty-first show, all because he saw how the world he committed his entire life to living outside of and being entirely unfazed by, reacted to the safe, comfortable, conventional talents of a Swedish nightingale.

Phillip has failed both Anne and Barnum in less than twenty-four hours. And, this failure resonates and weighs more heavily on him than any shame he has ever brought upon his parents.

He closes himself in the office, pulls his flask from the inner pocket of his overcoat, and tips it back, taking a long, burning, but not effacing- he doesn't deserve effacing- swig. Running a hand through his hair, he seizes a section of it and yanks at the roots until his scalp hurts. Tears slide down his face, tiny droplets splashing onto the bank statements cluttering the desk.

_Father, I_ do _,_ indeed _, have shame_ , he thinks contemptuously. _A never-ending, smothering profusion of it_. And, it's eating away at him, determined to devour him from the inside out.

 

.v.

 

A circus without a ringmaster at its helm is a truly sorry sight. An air of moroseness hangs thickly over everyone's heads, dismayed and joyless faces meeting Phillip's eyes everywhere he looks. Though no one dares to voice it, Phillip knows that he is no substitute for Barnum.

Audiences come for _P.T._ \- his crazy ideas and infectious energy. The spectacle and experience of watching him dominate the ring and shine like a beacon clad in magnificent, lurid red at the center of the breathtaking madness. It's _his_ name painted in bold lettering on the sign above the front doors, for Christ's sake.

Phillip is most assuredly _not_ a ringmaster. He has no power, no presence. _No act_. All that he can do is make the preparations necessary for creating the illusion- stuffing The World's Heaviest Man's shirt, adjusting Charles's general costume, helping to steady The Irish Giant as he mounts his stilts, assisting The Three-Legged Man in securing the laces of the shoe on his third leg. Preparations he has watched Barnum make countless times. Though he enacts them perfectly, the zest and excitement accompanying each show just _isn't there_.

Protestors have begun to slip into the audience, shouting words of abuse, and even hurling objects at the performers. Thankfully, no one has been injured, and crowds still leave, every night, with smiling faces.

But… pessimistic as it is, Phillip cannot help feeling that the circus is sinking, gradually going down in flames, and he is powerless to stop it.

 

.v.

 

Were he a superstitious man, Phillip might believe that his cynicism has cursed the show.

After his lack of any real presence, never mind _command_ , was made abundantly evident by his inability to show a group of hecklers the door, one of those hecklers hurled an oil lamp at a wall in an enraged act of pure, hate-filled malice. The various flyers and papers strewn all about the building served as a perfect conductor, and, within moments, the entirety of Barnum's Museum went up in flames.

Phillip resists the temptation licking at him, its allure strong enough to block out the heat of the fire, to stay behind and burn at the heart of the inferno. Permanently sear away all of his enervation, his malaise, his ennui, and overall uselessness to everyone around him. He is, after all, nothing more than Barnum's "overcompensated apprentice", his _stopgap_ , the _coward_ who withdrew his hand from Anne's out of fear of facing his parents' wrath, a _vessel_ for his parents to project all of their rigid standards and expectations onto.

Entirely _insignificant_ , in the grand scheme of things.

But, before he can ponder his own demise, he has to make sure that everyone else evacuates. That they're all safe.

Barnum's appearance in the crowd of spectators gathered outside sends a shockwave pulsing through Phillip's heart. He's _here_? He's supposed to be on tour. Why is he back early?

Barnum's hands are large, warm to Phillip's skin under his too thin shirt, his grip tight and frantic as he clutches at Phillip's shoulders, his dark eyes lit wildly with a _fear_ that Phillip never would have deemed possible for the ever far-reaching and indomitable showman if he wasn't seeing it with his own eyes. The words- questions- pouring from Barnum's lips hardly register as Phillip lets that baritone- enticing, enrapturing, God, it's been _too long_ since he heard it last- wash over him.

Dazed, Phillip reaches out to touch him, if only to affirm, for himself, that he's real, and not some apparition conjured into being by a dying mind.

His hand falls away from Barnum's back, withdrawing from the urge to stay at his side, when a quick surveillance of the circus troupe comes up one person short.

Anne. Where is-? Oh God, _no_. 

After hurting her beyond measure, and subjecting her to his parents' small-mindedness and hatred, after coming to know and love her, Phillip positively can _not_ leave Anne to die.

He bolts right back into the fire, forcing himself to try to ignore Barnum's desperate call of, "No, Phillip, _don't_!"

"Anne?" Phillip calls out. Smoke rushes him, pours into his eyes, his nose, assailing his lungs until a cough is ripped from his throat. "Anne?" He repeats.

Fire crackles and snaps all around him, making it near impossible to hear anything under its roar. The longer Phillip searches, the more the flicker of the flames becomes almost _mesmerizing_ , reds and oranges dancing a tantalizing waltz as they bathe the world in their ruinous glow.

He chokes on another lungful of smoke and brings his arms up to shield himself as a beam overhead snaps, breaking off and landing in a climbing wall of flame mere feet away. A shower of sparks rains down on Phillip, singeing his clothes and burning like hot coals against his skin.

"Anne!" He exclaims. His voice quakes with panic and pain and raw, animalistic terror as he envisions her trapped beneath the buckling foundations, flames ravaging and consuming her soft skin, her lovely curls. " _Anne_!" The cry breaks off into harsh coughs that have him doubling over.

Every particle of air in the vacuum the familiar furnishings have become is blackened, tainted, the taste of ash coating Phillip's tongue with every labored breath.

He rights himself just as a deafening crack rings out, and then sees spots and blackness in front of his eyes, feels a sharp pain race across his forehead.

He cries out, hissing through his teeth, instinctively reaching up to cradle the injury. Something trickles down his eyebrow, into his eye, and his fingers come away glistening with blood. " _Shit_ ," he whispers. His terror builds, a primal need for self-preservation all but _screaming_ at him to turn back and run like mad into the safety and salvation of the cool, breathable night air outside.

To Barnum.

But, that most base instinct is astonishingly easy to suppress when he feels dizzy and detached from everything, as if nothing is real and nothing matters, anymore.

Anne has to be safe. She simply _has_ to be. If not, Phillip deserves to burn in Hell, or languish in purgatory; whatever fate awaits the most heinous of sinners.

And, Barnum… _doesn't need him_. He never has. He was nothing but a source of funding who supplied the showman with connections. Not a friend, not an equal, never, for even a moment, a fraction of a moment, a potential…

Feeling completely hollowed out, numbed to the core, Phillip sinks to his knees, unable to support his own weight any longer. More coughs erupt from him, but they seem _fainter_ , somehow, far away, as if they're being projected from someone else's throat.

_I'm going to die, here_ , he realizes. The revelation brings him a peculiar sense of _peace_ .

He has found the calm spell at the eye of the hurricane, and lets himself stay there, waiting for the torrential winds to rip him limb from limb until there is nothing left.

Being burned alive is a more violent and spectacular end than Phillip ever imagined for himself, but it's strangely poetic, as well. Barnum introduced him to a world of color and passion and chaos beyond anything he had ever known, and the embodiment of all three will be his undoing.

His coughs grow fainter, still, as he slumps forward. Pieces of the ceilings continue to splinter off, and, through the waves of distortion induced by the heat he no longer feels, he makes out a clipping of newspaper proclaiming Barnum's tour with Jenny Lind to be a success, curling and blackening at the edges as it, too, goes up in flames.

"Phillip?"

It sounds like Barnum's voice, but it couldn't possibly be…

" _Phillip_!"

Thinking that having the man's proper given name on his lips as he dies is the most, perhaps _more than_ he deserves, Phillip says, his voice weakened, just barely there, " _Phineas_." And, gives in.

 

.v.

 

It isn't until he awakens in the hospital days later, Anne at his bedside- a vision, as always, even with her hair pulled into a messy bun, and incredibly, wonderfully, miraculously _alive_ \- that Phillip learns he wasn't dreaming, or hallucinating, or wishing for the impossible in his dying moments.

 "Barnum saved you," Anne whispers, her eyes misty.

"Why?" Phillip rasps. His lips are dried and cracked, his head is throbbing, and he still tastes smoke. The notion of Barnum rushing into the fire after him, scouring that hellish landscape, _endangering_ himself for _his_ sake, makes his head spin until he's holding it, quite ready to be sick.

Surely no one would _risk their life_ to preserve a benefactor. Barnum could always find another; win him or her over with his charms and promises, the disgraced Carlyle son becoming nothing more than a memory.

Anne has no answer to give him. She simply offers him a small, quivering smile, her lower lip trembling, and squeezes his hand.

 

.v.

 

The day Phillip is discharged from the hospital is when everything truly falls apart, or, more accurately, goes to hell.

He first hears of the damning headline and the cataclysmic ramifications of it from Anne.

Jenny Lind kissed Barnum. It's all over the papers.

Jenny pulled out of the tour.

And, Charity Barnum has left her husband for his indiscretions.

Phillip, feeling as though every one of his vital organs has dropped right out of him, stumbles away from Anne when they exit the building.

"Are you okay?" She asks after him, her brows knitting with concern.

"I'm fine. I just… I have some matters to take care of," he tells her. After a moment's thought, he adds, softly, keeping the breakage out of his voice with some effort, "Take care of yourself, Anne."

He catches a mere glimpse of her confused expression, hears her opening her mouth to inquire just what he meant, and quickens his pace before he can crumble.

He throws up in an alley as soon as he is out of her sight.

Phillip spends the next half hour stocking up on as much liquor as his portion of the last week's profits can buy, and has every intention of drinking until he either passes out and chokes on his own vomit, or destroys his liver, finally putting an end to his miserable existence with the very vice that has fueled it for years.

Whichever happens first suits him just fine.

This plan is halted by the sound of paper crinkling under Phillip's foot when he steps into his apartment. Curiosity niggling at him, he sets the bottles down and bends to retrieve the paper.

He immediately regrets this decision.

 

" _Phillip_ ," the _note_ reads in a script that Phillip recognizes with a sour, sharply acidic taste, all too like bile, hitting the back of his throat, as his _father's_.

 

_"You have brought indescribable shame upon this family. Our good name is forever sullied by your indiscretions._ _As you are too far out of reach to punish properly, your mother and I have agreed to cut off your inheritance._

 

_You will see what a life entangled in such disreputable business, and keeping such unsavory and abhorrent company brings you, and, perhaps, then, you will come to your senses. Until that moment of epiphany arrives, expect no further financial compensation from your mother and me. We refuse to subsidize your failure._ "

 

He knew this was coming. It was only a matter of time. But… tremors wrack Phillip, affecting first his hand clutching at the note, then his legs, steadily increasing in magnitude until his entire body seems to shake with them, right to the marrow of his bones.

No inheritance means that he cannot possibly afford to continue living where he is. And, the only other home that he has ever known lies in smoking ruins where it once stood.

He would rather _die_ than return to his parents. He would rather-

Swallowing, Phillip lets the note fall in lightly sweeping arcs to the floor. He uncaps one of the bottles of whisky, brings it to his lips, then changes his mind and sets the bottle carelessly on the floor. If it topples over and spills, well, that's hardly his concern, anymore.

The well of aching, agonizing, unending misery has filled well past the brim and spills over, swells of it rushing in thick currents through his arteries and flooding his heart, _drowning_ it. His throat closes up, breathing more strenuous than it was at the center of the fire.

His mind wanders, perhaps unbidden, to the rope that he bought several weeks back, intending to bring to the circus to assist Anne in rehearsals, and he recalls the question he posed to Barnum all those weeks ago.

_"Have you ever looked at the sea and imagined sinking to the very bottom of it?"_

 

.v.

 

After confirming that it is rigged correctly and pulled taut, Phillip steps onto a stool and slips the noose around his neck.

He inhales one last time, thinks of Barnum's dark, magnetic eyes, his smile brighter than the shine of a thousand spotlights, his extravagance, his excess, his willingness to give society's cast outs and those considered cursed by God for their physical abnormalities a _home_ , and a _family_.

Then, he thinks of the pain and ruination Barnum brought upon himself, because _Phillip_ could not dissuade him… and takes a step into emptiness.

The rope tightens around Phillip's neck the instant he knocks the stool out from under his feet. Pressure constricts his Adam's apple, pressing it into his windpipe, sealing the airway shut. _This is it, this is it, this is it_ , he thinks as his body trembles and his heart pulses with something that could be _fear_ , and _could_ be an effective deterrent if he wasn't so set on seeing this through.

Spots form at the borders of his vision. It's only a matter of minutes, he knows, until oxygen is cut off completely and his brain begins to die, and he fights to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his legs from kicking and thrashing in an attempt to touch the floor and relieve the vise on his throat.

_Just a little more_ , he tells himself, almost soothingly, with what remains of his cognizance. _Just a little…_

Through a dream-like daze, he is distantly aware of the sound of footfalls, shuffling, a rope being cut, and the sensation of being lowered and arms enveloping him. He wonders if he might be truly hallucinating in his final moments, as many are thought to do. Experiencing a fever dream, as no one would come to his rescue.

The world would be in want of nothing without Phillip "doesn't have an act" Carlyle. Phillip "you are a disgrace" Carlyle. Phillip "couldn't stop the man he feels so much of _everything_ for that it aches and steals the breath right out of his lungs, from ruining himself" Carlyle. Phillip "a freak without a home" Carlyle.

"Phillip?" A voice slips through the fog enshrouding his mind, and it's the voice that he has never been able to ignore. "Phillip, can you hear me? Oh Christ, _Phillip_." Acute concern, fear, and sorrow punctuate every word, wracking _that voice_ and yanking Phillip back into reality.

Back to _life_.

To feel his throat burning, no longer merely on the inside, but the outside, as well. He coughs, then draws in a gasping breath, croaking, " _Phineas_."

"Phillip, Phillip, Phillip," Barnum breathes. He cradles Phillip's face, his eyes shining with unshed tears and an emotion that Phillip cannot bear to give a name to, cannot hope fits the title he so longs to assign to it. "That's it. Keep breathing. Keep… _God_." Barnum exhales a shuddering breath and draws Phillip against him.

Phillip hears Barnum's heart pounding, and he trembles, tears he was not even aware of trailing down his cheeks. "Phineas," he whispers, rasping with the pain of speech.

"Damn it, what were you thinking? How could you _ever_ … ?" Piercing sadness underscores Barnum's bewilderment. His voice, normally booming, effortlessly filling a room to the rafters, is no more than hushed low tones barely above a whisper. He is _reeling_ , and Phillip feels enormously, monstrously ashamed of himself for causing this man any more pain.

But.

He was _so close_ to giving himself the fate that he deserves. This fork in the road is entirely unprecedented.

Yet… Good God, Phillip cannot truthfully say that he regrets it.    

"Phillip," Barnum whispers, tipping Phillip's face up to stare imploringly into his eyes. _"Why_?"

Under that gaze, the one that has leveled his walls and peered through all of his facades and veneers right to the very heart of him, Phillip feels his defenses _shatter_. His melancholy is shameful, but Barnum is the most shameless man that Phillip has ever known, so Phillip permits himself to murmur, "I-- M-My-- It _hurts_ , P.T." As he confesses the pain and vacancy that have simmered within him for so long, a lump forms in his throat and his chest begins to shudder with sobs that he has suppressed for the majority of his life. "Everything hurts, and I feel so hollow and empty. Wretched. _Hopeless_. It's like I'm-- God, I'm _drowning_ , and I don't know how to…" He breaks off, his speech dissolving into a coughing fit.

"We'll make it stop," Barnum swears, his hands running down the curves of Phillip's cheeks and his jaw. "We'll figure out a way, even if I have to maintain a constant vigil at your side to make sure that you never, _ever_ attempt to take your own life again."

Phillip's jaw quavers even after the coughs cease. All he can do is stare into Barnum's eyes, cling to him, remind himself that Barnum is actually _here with him_. In the _real world_. In the plane of existence inhabited by the living, and not whatever lies beyond.

Barnum sincerely _cares_ for him.

Choking back a sob of his own, Barnum presses his lips to Phillip's forehead and ghosts his fingers over the spot on Phillip's neck where a welt is, undoubtedly, already forming, inflicted by the burn and scrape of the rope against his flesh. "Christ," he breathes. "Do you have any idea how devastated I would be if I lost you? When you left my side to run into that fire, when I saw you _hanging_ _from that God damned rope_ , I… " He breaks off, his voice too tremulous- not with anger, despite the vehemence of his words, but with _fear_ and _sadness_ as vast as the well spanning the full length of Phillip- to continue. "Phillip," he whispers into Phillip's hair as he embraces him, gently rocking the both of them, perhaps without even realizing it.

Phillip buries his face in the crook of Barnum's neck and inhales, breathing him in like the life-giving oxygen he tried to deprive himself of. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

"Don't speak anymore," Barnum murmurs. His voice continues to tremble, but he adopts a soothing lilt as he implores, "Give your voice a rest. Please."

Though Phillip has so much that he still needs to say, he complies with the request, an overwhelming sense of relief settling inside his bones with fatigue in tow.

Barnum adjusts his hold on Phillip to gather him into his arms, and carries him bridal style, as if Phillip weighs next to nothing, the strength of his upper body reassuring as it is intimidating. Something stirs inside of Phillip, faint tingles of muscle memory, of déjà vu, as if he has experienced this, before.

He is so weary, so overcome, however, he doesn't allow himself to puzzle it out.

Barnum sets Phillip on the bed in the bedroom that Phillip now views as disgustingly large and profligate, with a tenderness that makes Phillip's heart ache.

Phillip is exhausted to his very marrow, but he battles back the need for sleep and blinks his heavy, lidded eyes open. He wants, he _needs_ … "P.T."

Silently, Barnum puts a pause on his search for a chair and turns to face Phillip. "Phil," he starts, looking just as exhausted and shaken to his core. "What did I say about--"

"Just, come here. _Please_."

Something- the need in Phillip's rasping, broken voice, or the look in his eyes, or how absolutely vulnerable and pathetic he truly is- has Barnum approaching his bedside and settling down beside him. He lies facing Phillip, and lifts a hand to caress Phillip's face.

Phillip leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed, at last.

"I will never leave your side again."

"That's a bit unrealistic, don't you think? You'll have to step away to tend to certain bodily affairs, at some point." Phillip's eyes open partway as he teases Barnum, a small smile playing on his lips. Even though that vow means everything to him, as now that he has him, he can't handle losing Phineas Taylor Barnum, _ever_ , _ever again_. 

Barnum emits a puffing exhalation of stricken laughter. His eyes, warm, radiant hazel, shimmer wetly, a trembling grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he draws a shaking finger over the ridge of Phillip's cheekbone. "Where _would_ I be without your dazzling wit, sense, and reason to ground me when I fly too close to the sun?"

"I would prefer not to entertain those thoughts," Phillip says, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. It still burns with the pain of speaking, but he ignores that burn. His walls are down and so many long repressed emotions are pouring out of him in a stream he cannot hope to obstruct.

Barnum litters another kiss on Phillip's forehead and _just_ brushes his lips against Phillip's for a sliver of a moment; a pocket of time so small, it is almost imperceptible.

But, Phillip feels it, and his heart _sings_. He was so certain he was the only degenerate amongst the circus troupe, the only harborer of a perverse attraction to other men. If _anyone_ shared in his perversity, however, it _would_ be Barnum. The man who seduced him, and seemed to touch him at any and every opportunity- nudges, prods, hands resting, seemingly without thought, on his arms, his chest, his shoulders, hands reaching for and clinging to him like a life preserver tossed into a stormy sea to aid a man hopelessly pitched about by cruel, unforgivingly tempestuous waves.

A certain degree of tension always weighed on the air surrounding them, and Phillip cannot believe he never added it all up and discovered the sum until _this very moment_.

"No more reckless, impulsive tours that you advise me against and I didn't listen," Barnum swears. "No more sidelining you, Lettie, Anne, and the others for the pursuit of fame and riches. No more--"

Phillip cuts him off with the softest press of his lips against the older man's. He tells himself it's merely experimental, but his thundering heartbeat knows otherwise.

It takes a moment, but Barnum's mouth is soon moving with his, pressing, _kissing back_ , and Phillip sighs, trembling with fatigue, and excitement, and relief, and hope, and more _joy_ than his body can contain.

The kiss is broken slowly and just as softly as it began. Barnum touches his nose to Phillip's and tells him, peering into his eyes, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips, "Sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up."

It's a promise, like so many that Barnum makes with no intention of keeping. Words meticulously selected for the sole purpose of manipulation, for winning someone over in the name of getting his desired outcome.

But, Phillip _believes_ him. Because for all of his recklessness, for all of the ways that pride and ambition blinded him, for all of his lack of good judgement and flamboyant excessiveness, Phineas Taylor Barnum has _saved_ him. From the fire that nearly claimed so many casualties, precious things and _people_ that could never be replaced, and from a oneway path to self-destruction.

Content in his belief and the security it provides- that Barnum's warm, solid presence curled around him provides- Phillip nuzzles Barnum's nose with his own, his eyes half-lidded, heart full, and breathes in, letting his consciousness begin to drift away. He slips soundly into sleep with the wonderful sound of Barnum's breathing fluttering in his ears, knowing that, at least for now, the well has been emptied, and the misery inside of it replaced with more than Phillip ever believed could be his.

For once in his life, he doesn't dread waking up.

 

.v.

 

Phillip rouses to find his soon to be former bedroom bathed in blinding sunlight streaming in through an opening in the once closed curtains. Evidently, someone had taken it upon themselves to liven the space up with a bit of unwanted light.

Minor irritation stirs in Phillip only to die out swiftly when Barnum pokes his head around the doorway.

"Ah, you're awake! It's a quarter after noon, you know," he chides affectionately.

"I've never been an early riser," Phillip replies. A smile is already unfurling across his face. _Barnum kept his word._

"That, my dear Phillip, is something we're going to have to work at correcting."

"Mm, you can try, but old habits die hard."

Barnum looks as though his sleep was troubled. He has dark spots rimming his eyes, a strong indicator of sleeplessness, and obviously forwent shaving, this morning, a layer of greying stubble dusting his chin and jaw. The radiance of his smile, however, negates all of this. He is the most beautiful person in the world to Phillip at this very moment. Perhaps, period.

Phillip's heart is no longer a well, but a reservoir, and it fills and floods with love.

"Well, that old habit of yours will prove to be quite the disappointment when your breakfast got cold an hour ago," Barnum says, his vexing smirk burgeoning.

Phillip gapes at him, then tosses the blankets aside and rushes to the kitchen as Barnum's warm, lively chuckles fill the otherwise dead silent apartment. Waiting upon the table to meet him is a plate topped with a tart that appears, judging by the color of its filling, to be blueberry, and a cup of tea. "You… made this?" Phillip asks, regarding the ringmaster with an awe the man never fails to conjure up. Even as he simultaneously frustrates Phillip to no end.

"I had to scrounge around, do some foraging. Your cupboards are unacceptably barren." Barnum regards him, in turn, with a fixed stare; head ever so slightly tilted and eyebrows ever so slightly arced.

"Food… " Phillip admits, lowering his eyes, "was never a priority."

"We're going to have to change that, as well, then," Barnum concedes firmly.

Someone is attempting to take care of Phillip. Someone is personally invested in his welfare. And, that someone has not lashed out at him for being defective, or insane, or a deviant. He swallows, feeling his throat tighten. "P.T., I…"

"Sit down," Barnum says, pulling up a chair until the seat touches the backs of Phillip's thighs. "Eat."

"P.T., you keep saying ' _we_ '."

"I do."

Phillip opens his mouth, muscles in his jaw flexing as he gropes and searches fruitlessly about for words to articulate the confounding array of emotions that Barnum conjures. "Wh-Why do you-- "

"Phillip, _eat_ ," Barnum repeats. His voice effortlessly adopts the short, commanding tone he uses to direct his performers, and heat pools in Phillip's stomach, threatening to journey further south, at the sound of it.

He immediately obeys, dropping into the chair and allowing Barnum to scoot it closer to the table. Despite Barnum's earlier taunt, the tart is still quite warm, and steam curls up from the tea. Conman, indeed. Phillip selects the cup, first, lifting it to his mouth and breathing in the aroma of the mahogany liquid within. "Raspberry?" He asks.

"And, honey. To soothe your throat."

Phillip intends to thank Barnum, though speech, alone, would be a woefully inadequate means of conveying the true breadth of that gratitude, but his damned tongue betrays him. "I didn't know you could bake," is what slips past it, instead.

"There's a lot you still have to discover about me," Barnum promises, punctuating the promise and feeding every dangerous implication of it with another impish smirk and diabolical glint in his eye.

Phillip shivers, and very, _very_ nearly moans out loud. It seems that Barnum saved him, twice, just to do away with him, himself. But… If his death comes about while he's writhing impenitently under the showman's impressive form, Phillip supposes he could be okay with that. Cheeks heating at the lewd mental image- where _is_ his head, today? He opens up to Barnum, once, and it's as if all of his sense has flown right out the window- Phillip elects to fill his treacherous mouth as an alternative to risking something particularly damning escaping it before he has the mind about him to filter himself.

He takes a delicate sip of tea, then a bite of the tart. Both are better than he could have predicted by leagues and fathoms, and his stomach comes rumbling to life, demanding more.

Barnum observes him with a grin that is equal bits smug and pleased. "You've been deprived of too many things, Phillip," he muses.

Phillip waits until he has swallowed his mouthful of tart and dabbed at his mouth to wipe away any crumbs, before retorting, "Not all men can revel in flamboyant excess the way you do."

"You'll just have to learn how to, then, won't you?" Barnum winks at him, and a flush descends over Phillip's entire body.

Were it not for the distinct taste and texture of his food and drink, and the gurgling of his stomach being assuaged by them, Phillip, a non-religious, non-superstitious man, might believe that he's died and gone to Heaven.

 

.v.

 

Barnum finds the note from Mr. Carlyle and, after skimming it, promptly folds it in half once, twice, four times, then rips it into eight pieces, his eyes darkened with uncharacteristically blistering fury. "You're coming to stay with me," he says. Before Phillip can so much as _begin_ to form an argument, Barnum cuts him short. "I'll accept no protests or refutations. Pack up your belongings, and we're out of here."

Phillip almost breaks down, once again, under the volume of the sheer relief surging through him. How could so many of the problems that have piled up into a mountainous accumulation one ill-timed shout away from an avalanche be resolved so quickly, so neatly and _painlessly,_ in one fell swoop? This doesn't feel real. It's far more than he deserves. "P.T…."

Barnum's rage softens, allaying as he rests a hand on the back of Phillip's neck and runs the tips of his fingers gently through the short, fine hairs on the nape of it. His touch is warm, grounding. "You don't need that man to 'subsidize' _anything_ for you."

Phillip searches the older man's eyes, reads the sentiment glowing like warm candlelight within them; _"I'll take care of you. I'll always take care of you."_ Frayed and sliced segments of rope lie about the floor, winding like a venomous serpent, and memories of being willfully ensnared in its coils, the life slowly squeezed, _strangled_ from him, bombard Phillip's mind in rapid succession. Pain. No air. _So much fear_. Drowning, never to see dark hair, a brilliant smile, warm hazel eyes, _again_.

Tears sting as they well up, reducing his view of Barnum to blurs of black, white, and lightly tanned flesh. "Phin," he murmurs. He brings a hand up and closes it over Barnum's wrist, whispering around the constriction in his throat, "Thank you."

Barnum replies with that heartrending tenderness, "Thank me when you've made it to eighty years old, have lived a long, full, and happy life, and are ready to slip gently into that long good night."

Phillip's attempt at a smile dissolves into more pathetic sobs. His chest and shoulders shake with the fervor of them.

Without a word, Barnum draws Phillip into him, holding him tightly and stroking through his hair. "That's all right," he murmurs. "It's all right."

"Phin," Phillip hiccups, thoroughly ashamed of himself, but unable to rein anything back in, _or_ seal the dam.

"You need this," Barnum assures him, the low notes of his baritone lilting, once more mellifluous, and soothing. "Let it out. It's okay."

Phillip doesn't quite believe him, but he pushes his face into Barnum's shirt, sobbing and crying harder than any respectable man should, every dam, every wall shattered beyond repair. Broken like a damned peanut shell.

"Shh, you'll be all right. We'll fix everything," Barnum promises, resting his cheek against Phillip's temple. Phillip isn't certain which one of them the promise is truly intended for, but he latches on to it, like a man in the frozen wilderness safeguarding his final unused match. "We'll fix everything."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild warning for a vague, but still very direct reference to wrist-slitting, near the end of this chapter. As always, read onward with discretion.

 

 

 

All of Phillip's belongings that he couldn't bear to part with, including the ones he hesitated for a split second before insisting that he didn't need, are relocated to the Barnums' sprawling estate.

The coachman gives the pair of men an odd look as they climb into his carriage, arms loaded with trunks and suitcases, but graciously keeps any suppositions to himself.

A chill bleeds through Phillip's overcoat and scarf to infiltrate his bones, during the ride. He is unable to suppress the resulting shiver, and feels Barnum move closer to whisper, "You can lean against me."

The willingness to stifle and ignore his- pathetic, sniveling, contemptible-  needs has been evicted by Phineas Barnum's entrance into Phillip's life. Barnum might as well have shown Phillip's reservations the door, himself. Thus, where Phillip once would have balked, straightened himself up, insisted that he was fine, and allowed himself to continue stubbornly shivering, he now leans into Barnum's sturdy form, and his eyes flutter closed, content, as the showman's natural warmth seeps into his skin.

Barnum makes a low, approving noise in his throat, and Phillip just dares a soft hum, in response.

 

.v.

 

It feels strange and invasive to create a space for himself in a home that so clearly belongs- or, _belonged_ , but Phillip refuses to dwell on that- to a family that he isn't a part of. Traces of Charity, Caroline, and Helen are visible throughout the home; lace doilies, tiny shoes, hairpins and ribbons, brushes for application of makeup, near empty perfume bottles, even a dollhouse, and an expensive one, at that, remain littered here and there.

Charity packed up and left, certainly, but she also left just enough of herself and the girls behind to make it seem that a part of her, no matter how small, knew that she might regret her decision and come back to Barnum.

Phillip knows that he would have forgiven Barnum his transgression with Jenny Lind, and even his treatment of the oddities, simply because Barnum came back to, and _for_ them. But, he has never exactly considered himself a person of particular emotional fortitude.

Charity Barnum is handling a less than ideal situation in the most ideal fashion that she can, and Phillip can feel no more anger toward her than Barnum does, even though Charity's father slapped Barnum across the face when he was a young boy, and has looked down on him his entire adult life, which could (quite justifiably) be considered grounds for viewing Charity seeking refuge with her father, in light of the complications with her marriage, as a second slap to the face.

They pass the master bedroom, Phillip picking up just a trace of women's perfume lingering faintly on the still air inside of it, and Barnum turns back to him to nod when they reach a room at the end of the hall.

"Here it is," he says. With a deft twist of the polished doorknob, Barnum pulls the door open, and spreads his arm in a wide, welcoming gesture. "Phillip Carlyle- your new room."

The walls are painted in warm beiges and cream colors, similar to the rest of the home. There is a closet, and a large window set in an alcove overlooking the vistas outside. The bed is unmade, but sports a clean white mattress supported by an ebony wooden frame, and two plumped pillows.

Phillip momentarily forgets how to breathe.

"I figure we could refurbish one of the shelves lying around here and make it into a bookcase for you," Barnum says, already bustling about to fill the room with Phillip's things. "Or, buy you a new one, somewhere down the line. What _would_ a man be without his literature? And, your clothes will fit nicely in the closet. It's massive- a walk-in one." He sets a trunk down with a reverberating _thunk_ to hurry to the closet and illustrate his point, sliding the door open to reveal a long, horizontal space that a grown man could easily maneuver through. "The view outside," he goes on, astonishingly not winded by the brisk pace of either his movements, or his speech, "isn't as impressive as the one from the master bedroom, but, well…" His mouth twitches into a grin, and he leads a still awestruck and disbelieving Phillip over to the window, instructing him to, "Have a look for yourself."

A beautiful garden, far prettier than any Phillip has found in the courtyards of numerous stately mansions and townhouses, stretches on, surrounded by several acres of woodland lined with tall, nearly bare trees shedding their few leaves for the coming winter. The patch of forest gradually recedes, giving way to a beach with a shoreline of white sand that borders the sea. It's a backdrop that any writer or creative soul would _kill_ for, and Phillip…

"Well, what do you think?" When no response is offered to him, Barnum gives Phillip an imploring nudge. "Come on, Phil. I know that tongue of yours works."

Phillip catches the dual meaning of that statement and splutters, his face likely turning red as his scarf.

Barnum smirks, contorting Phillip's exasperation into something closer to a twisted excitement than Phillip cares to acknowledge.

"I often wish that yours knew when not to," Phillip volleys back.

" _Maybe_ it could be persuaded to hold itself," Barnum almost purrs, the lowest register of his voice silky and thickly seductive.

Phillip's breath hitches, and he subconsciously backs into Barnum, craving the heat of the older man's skin, the firmness of his muscle, the vibrations of his voice as it travels from the cavity of his chest, up his throat.

"But… " Barnum draws out, ever a tease and positively _incensing_ , nuzzling into Phillip's hair. "I'd like an answer to my question, first."

With everything that has happened, all of the powerlessness that has made Phillip feel like Atlas being crushed under the world's weight, the lifetime of being trapped and caged and viewing death as his only true escape, Phillip is ready to have some control before he willingly surrenders it all to Barnum. He pivots about and seizes Barnum's hands by the wrist, successfully catching the man off-guard. "Why don't I _show_ you what I think?" He asks in a sultry murmur, peering up at the ringmaster from beneath his eyelashes.

Barnum's pupils dilate, his breaths quickening. "Well… " His smirk works its way across his face. "Actions _do_ speak louder than words," he finishes with a growl that drives shivers and heat down Phillip's spine, below his stomach. The tip of his nose grazes Phillip's, and Phillip tilts his face up, standing on his toes to press back.

He drags his teeth slowly, deliberately over Barnum's lower lip, his skin alight with the thrill coursing and zinging through him as a just audible staggered gasp is coaxed from Barnum's throat. "Charity?" He asks, wanting to make damn sure that he isn't the Jenny Lind in this situation.

"'Charity'?" Barnum echoes, dazed.

Phillip stifles a grin. So, he has the same effect on Barnum that Barnum has on him. He files this information away for later usage.

"Charity," Barnum says, again, blinking as he regains some of his sense. "Charity is-- We'll--" He breathes harder, heavier, his eyes darkening with unmistakable lust as they focus on Phillip's. " _Fuck_ ," he murmurs. "Phillip." His walls shatter, as well, Phillip can see it, and then Phillip is pulled into a ravaging kiss that sears his lips with its tingling, pleasantly burning intensity.

He moans into the kiss and feels a responding groan vibrate against his lips. Tongues venture out to explore teeth, the roofs of mouths, each other. The heat that earlier pooled in Phillip's stomach rushes right back, cascading into his groin, stoking flames that lick up and dance around his hips, whispering for _more, more, more_. He arches his hips forward to appease those whispers, just touching the solid heat between Barnum's legs, and feels a louder, fuller moan drawn out of his own mouth at the electrifying pleasure that surges through him when Barnum grabs his posterior and pulls him in closer, grinding their pelvises together.

"G- _God_ ," Phillip gasps. He inclines his neck eagerly as Barnum flurries kisses over the column of it, nipping at the curve of his jaw, tracing the shell of his ear with his nose. "P- _Phin_."

"I love it when you say that," Barnum hisses. He kneads the swell of Phillip's rear, hitching gasps and quiet mewling sounds rising out of Phillip before Phillip can silence them. Barnum's stubble pricks at Phillip's skin, the bouquet of fragrances- cologne; fresh with a musk that makes Phillip weak at the knees, finely aged whiskey, the clean scent of laundry soaps clinging to his clothes, the faintly dusty aroma of peanut shells, all spiced with a hint of sweat- that proudly declare, _P.T. Barnum, at your service_ , _intoxicating_.

Phillip is already half-drunk off of Phineas T. Barnum when his hand slips into the man's open shirt and explores the firmness of his pectorals and the dark hair curling lightly over them. "Shit, _Phin_ ," he breathes.

Barnum groans softly, yanking Phillip's shirt from the waistband of his trousers and continuing to push the now prominent bulges straining against the material clothing their lower halves into each other.

Struggling to contain another moan at the heat, the friction, the _sensation, itself_ , Phillip latches on to any bit of the finely tailored fabric stretched tight across Barnum's toned thighs and taut rear that he can to keep him close. He rocks into the slow, circular gyrations being pressed into his stimulated and sensitive inexpressibles, and pants, mouth open and eyes lidded.

"You're so needy," Barnum whispers, his mouth against Phillip's ear. His hot breaths and the words accompanying them are only an incentive for Phillip to work his body against Barnum's harder, faster, unable to curb the sudden, irrepressible _need_ to reach the state of impossible pleasure he's heard spoken so highly of in bars long after anyone of any modicum of repute has left for the night.

Pleasure that, according to one particularly obscene anecdote Phillip once overheard, is worth having a woman wrap her "pretty wet lips" around a man's "cock" in the back of a seedy, filthy alley stinking to the high heavens, where anyone could see.

And, he's disgusted with himself for craving fulfillment of such a base, animalistic need so voraciously.

Chuckling, clearly amused, and sounding more than a bit impressed, Barnum sneaks his hands under Phillip's shirt and bows his head to rasp his tongue over a portion of the welt on Phillip's neck.

Pain mingles with the pleasure, and Phillip cries out, alarmed at how _good_ it feels, shivers darting up and down his spine. "Phineas, I-- ! _Please_ , I can't--"

"Well, what do you know? It _is_ true." Barnum murmurs, his prideful tone suggesting that he knew whatever "it" is, all along. He traces the contours of the muscle sculpting Phillip's abdomen with a caressing finger that drives Phillip mad, reeling him in and undoing his trousers, and remarks, "People of the aristocracy really _are_ repressed emotionally, artistically, _and_ sexually."

Hearing the word "sex", completely forbidden in high-class society for its obscenity, uttered in _that voice_ nearly makes Phillip spill his seed then and there. Barnum slipping his hand into Phillip's trousers and gripping Phillip's manhood in a powerful vise at the same time that he bites into the juncture of flesh between Phillip's neck and shoulders sends Phillip into a haze of intense ecstasy that explodes within him, and he whimpers, rutting against Barnum until he finally sags, spent, his body going limp against the older man.

Barnum holds him, graciously keeping him upright.

Once Phillip catches his breath, his senses return and his cheeks _burn_ with shame. "God. P.T., I'm sorry, I-- " _I'm vulgar, licentious, no better than a depraved, degenerate whore._

Barnum curls a finger under Phillip's chin and tilts it up. He stares into his eyes, his expression tired and lax, but the fire still burning fiercely behind his entrancingly hazel eyes. "You need to stop feeling ashamed of and castigating yourself for being _human_ , Phillip," he says softly but severely. "It's no way to live. You're doing yourself much more harm than good by suppressing needs and urges that every creature walking or crawling along this planet has." His thumb caresses Phillip's chin, and Phillip feels himself sinking into a blissful state of exhaustion, a metric ton of weight being lifted off of his chest.

"Okay," Phillip murmurs. "I'll try to stop."

"That's a start." Smiling, Barnum presses a satisfied kiss to Phillip's lips.

 

.v.

 

Phillip stirs, unable to recall actually falling asleep, to see the waning deep pinks and pale blues of dusk outside the window. Barnum is lying on his stomach beside him, snoring quietly, an arm draped over Phillip's midsection, and they're buried under layers of blankets topped with Phillip's own duvet.

Phillip has never slept so much in a single day, even when hungover.

He pulls himself upright carefully, so as not to disturb Barnum, who slept poorly the night before, and slips out of bed. The chill in the air strikes him immediately, and he tucks the blankets more snugly around Barnum, absently smoothing them over his backside and combing his fingers through the messy in a still beautiful way that only Barnum can manage, silky curls of the older man's dark hair. He steps away before he can give into the temptation to brush a kiss to Barnum's brow.

He then tends to the fireplace, striking a match and poking at the coals until a small fire is roaring, its warmth gradually fanning out to fill the room. He is warming his own icy hands by the fire when it occurs to him that his nether garments are damp, and sticking to him in a most uncomfortable manner.

Blushing fiercely, Phillip scrambles to rectify this. He is no longer an adolescent. There's no excuse for… _messes_ , like this.

After swiftly changing clothes and checking to make sure that Barnum is still sleeping soundly, his quiet snores a comforting white noise, Phillip departs for the kitchen. He hasn't seen his boss ingest a single morsel of food all day, and, while Phillip has never been particularly skilled in the culinary sense, the very, _very_ least he can do for the man who saved his life is put a dinner together.

He recalls the shepherd's pies the cook of the Carlyle estate, Francesca, used to prepare, and mentally walks himself through the ingredients. Meat, potatoes, vegetables… Luckily, most of them are available.

Phillip nicks his fingers more than a few times while peeling and slicing the potatoes and turkey, worries that he's added too much butter, then not enough, not enough seasonings, then too much, and winds up unintentionally absorbed in a tome he found in Barnum's study upon wandering off to let the compilation of ingredients bake into something hopefully resembling the desired end product.

The pages of this tome are filled with illustrations of constellations and footnotes detailing their placement in the sky. Astronomy has never held any particular appeal to Phillip, his interests being much more worldly and, to put it frankly, _mundane_. But, it makes sense for Barnum to be attracted to celestial bodies millions of miles away.

No societal strictures can limit or confine him and his fantastical aspirations, so why should things minor as the Earth's atmosphere and the force of gravity?

Upon closer scrutiny, Phillip can make out a few words that appear to be German inscribed near the illustration of Caliopea, an admittedly lovely name for a configuration of stars: _Sehnsucht_ and _Traumtänzer_.

They're penned in Barnum's script, one that Phillip is well acquainted with after weeks of reading through bank statements, stage directions, and orders for more animals, more props, more feed for the animals, specific alterations to be made to costumes- cinch the waist tighter, more glitter, more tassels, more sequins, raise the hemline, drop the neckline, and so on. Phillip briefly studied German in school, and retained snippets of it, as well as the bare basics of French. He's certain he has encountered _tänzer_ , before. He has seen at least one German ballet- and briefly flirted with one of the male dancers when his father wasn't looking. But, _traum_ and _sehnsucht_ are entirely foreign.

He's flipping to the next page as the smell of smoke hits his nose.

**_Fire_** , his brain screams. And, he's transported in a heartbeat back to that night; to walls of flames, burning his clothes, his skin, being unable to breathe, coughing and coughing until his lungs ache like they're ready to burst, surrendering, lying down to…

"Phillip? Phillip!" Barnum is shouting, alarm to mirror Phillip's filling his voice. The familiar, anchoring sound of it pulls Phillip away from his undesired visitation with the hellscape.

"I'm here," Phillip croaks. Phantom pain shoots along the healing wound on his forehead, causing him to grimace.

Evidently not hearing him, Barnum calls, again, desperation tinging the exclamation, " _Phillip_?"

Phillip summons strength from deep within to raise his voice and answer, "I-I'm _here_ , Phineas!"

Barnum skids into the study, his eyes wide, chest heaving with the frantic, panting breaths he's seemingly just now allowing himself to take in. He lifts a hand to his chest, clasping at his heart. His shoulders sag with relief as his eyes land on Phillip. "I smelled smoke, and… "

He doesn't need to elaborate any further.

"Yeah," Phillip murmurs. "Me, too."

They hold each other's eyes for a long moment. Barnum moves his hand to his hair, running it through the unruly curls in an attempt to compose- maybe even console- himself. Phillip's fingers twitch, longing to bury themselves in that hair, when he remembers that he was supposed to be doing something.

And, that something involves--

" _Shit_ ," he hisses.

"Phillip?" Barnum questions.

Instead of answering, Phillip dashes past him and nearly trips in his hurry to reach the kitchen. Smoke is pouring from the oven as he extracts- and fails to save- the piteous, blackened mass that was, at some point, their dinner.

"You prepared dinner?" Barnum asks, having slipped silently into the room. He is somehow unruffled by the smoke, casually walking over to open the window.

" _Tried_ to," Phillip mutters. His stomach begins to wring itself into a nervous, mortified knot.

"That was very thoughtful of you." Barnum flashes him a version of his already brilliant smile made blinding by the soft glow in his eyes.

Shame is temporarily effaced by a flood of warmth that seizes Phillip's heart and has his breath catching in his throat. "I… I wanted to-- " He swallows and transfers the pan filled with a burnt and practically unrecognizable shepherd's pie to the dining room table. "Our--" He catches and corrects himself, "-- _my parents'_ cook, Francesca, used to make the most exquisite shepherd's pies with turkey instead of ground beef. I thought I could replicate her success after watching her do it for so long, but… "

Barnum's affectionate stare does not falter. "I'm sure it turned out great."

Phillip can't curtail the derisive laughter that rises out of him. "If your expectations are that high, you're going to be sorely disappointed."

"We'll see then, won't we?" Barnum queries, a playful undertone to his words, as he collects a bottle of a fine dinner wine and two glasses, two plates, and two sets of knives and forks. He finishes setting the table with the final touch of two serviettes.

"I suppose we will," Phillip replies with a wry smile, sucking in a preparatory breath.

Barnum takes his serving without any fuss, and doesn't so much as flinch at the unnatural crunch of the blackened surface.

Phillip's nose crinkles as he cuts off his own portion. "Are you sure you want to do this?" He asks, watching Barnum cut off a piece of the mutilated pie.

Lifting his fork to his mouth, Barnum says, eyes twinkling with amusement, "I think you're forgetting I have two wonderful daughters who, in spite of their inexperience, have poured their hearts into making breakfast for me on more than a few occasions. They didn't fare much better than you, but it's the thought that counts, right? Besides," he adds, biting bravely into the wretched excuse for a meal, "it toughens your stomach."

Phillip stabs his fork into a small piece of pie and, warily, brings it to his mouth. Upon biting into it, he learns right away that it has the taste and consistency of coal, and spits it right back into his serviette. "Ahgh," he groans, not missing the smirk playing across Barnum's face. "That's foul." He reaches for his glass of wine, hoping to rid his mouth of the vile taste as he swishes the burgundy liquid about. "Ugh, it tastes like _shit_ ," he proclaims after swallowing, scrunching his face up in pure disgust.

 Barnum laughs, and though Phillip has never enjoyed being laughed at, he gets the sense that this isn't what is happening, here. "It's safe to say, then, that you'll be leaving the cooking to me, from now on," Barnum declares. His eyes shine as he, to Phillip's complete bewilderment, takes another bite of the accursed lump of overcooked, inedible, gallimaufry.

" _Yes_ ," Phillip insists. " _By all means_."

Barnum lets out another chuckle, and, though his mouth still tastes like burnt, crusty potatoes, Phillip finds himself laughing right along with him.

 

.v.

 

The rest of the remaining hours of the day are devoted to moving the remainder of Phillip's belongings into his new accommodations. Regardless of Barnum's assurances, Phillip doesn't allow himself the sense of security that comes with viewing his "new room" in the Barnums' manor as "home".

Continuing to keep his promise, Barnum lies beside Phillip, once again, when they've finally finished well after midnight. With an uncharacteristically _timid_ air about him, he lifts his hand to Phillip's where it lays on the pillows between them.

"You…" Phillip swallows, both dazed and incredulous. "P.T., it's okay," he whispers.

"Right. Of course," Barnum murmurs. Phillip has no doubt that he's addressing it to himself. A small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Barnum lays his hand over Phillip's and weaves his fingers through the spaces between each of Phillip's digits.

A welcome sense of peace and safety descends over Phillip. He moves in closer, burrowing into the pillow under his cheek. As he watches, storm clouds seem to gather in Barnum's eyes, visible even with the dim glow of the candlelight, darkening their soft hazel shade and the rings of green and blue enriching it. He senses that the man's mind is miles away, slipping into the endlessly winding and nearly impossible to navigate maze within his brain. "Phin?" Phillip inquires gently.

Barnum startles, his eyes returning to Phillip as if suddenly enlightened to his presence. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Where did your mind wander off to, this time?" Phillip leans in to press a kiss to Barnum's knuckles, and stops short at sight of numerous white lines scored into the work-toughened skin, inflicted, he realizes, by the collapse of the roof of Barnum's Museum. And, halted by the glint of the silver band around the older man's third finger. A symbol that some part of Barnum's heart, undoubtedly a much larger part than Phillip occupies, still belongs to Charity. And, though the Barnums are at odds with one another, right now, Phillip still feels as though he's an interloper intruding upon someone else's life and happiness. 

"I was just…" The cords of muscle in his throat flex as Barnum swallows. "God, what if I had been too late?" He rasps. His eyes lower to their joined hands, taking in the small cuts, still pink, lining the knuckles of Phillip's index and middle fingers.

Phillip's heart cracks, threatening to split right down the center. "Don't think about that," he murmurs in dulcet tones.

Barnum's thumb massages circles into the back of Phillip's hand before slowly and timorously moving to his face. He cradles Phillip's cheek in his palm, gently, gradually dragging the appendage down to Phillip's neck to squeeze and knead at the nape. "I would have lost you," he breathes, the words drenched in sorrow heavy as what sapped Phillip of all strength and choked the air right out of his lungs. His eyes shimmer wetly.

"You didn't," Phillip assures him, determined to make it sink home. He moves closer, still, to pepper kisses over Barnum's nose, his lips, his throat. As he repeats the reassurance, "You didn't lose me, Phin. I'm right here. I'm still here," the full weight of it crashes over him. He's still _alive_ \- alive and _trapped, bound, caged, constricted_ \- and that prospect and everything that it entails positively _terrifies_ him.

Especially now that he has so much more to lose. Family, friends, love, a purpose, _joy_.

"You know… it's rather unfair that no one ever thinks to warn you how difficult and terrifying living truly is," he says in a low, unsteady voice, pressing his face into the crook of Barnum's neck, nuzzling the pulse he finds there, and wishing he could stay in their small world of safety and solitude for all of time.

"No… " Barnum attests with a sigh. He ventures a bit lower to press small, adroit circles into the knob of the first vertebrae on Phillip's spinal column.

Phillip's breath hitches and he curls into Barnum, edging nearer and nearer to slumber despite the icy, steely grip of terror, as waves of contentment lap against him, eroding the terror bit by painstaking bit, and washing it out to sea.

"They don't. And, that _is_ rather callous and unfair. _But_ , with unwavering belief in yourself, and a few good people to bolster that belief, to support and love you, life becomes a little less difficult, and a lot less terrifying." Barnum sounds so sure, so confident in this assurance, that Phillip believes him.

Having Barnum in his life has already made it a bit easier.

Even if his determination to drag Phillip into unknown territory does nothing but lend to Phillip's terror.

 

.v.

 

The door to "Phillip's room" opens as Phillip stands before the vanity mirror, adjusting the lapels of his overcoat and straightening the knot of his tie. He brushes some, perhaps imaginary, lint off of the shoulders of the coat and gets a glimpse of Barnum's reflection in the mirror as Barnum enters the room. Phillip observes the man's downcast expression and slumped, diminished posture with a sinking in his chest.

The fierce glimmer of ingenuity and determination that positively _radiated_ from Barnum, this morning, hastening his stride and dancing in his eyes as he donned one of his finest three piece suits- a uniquely pine green, and, therein, uniquely _Barnum_ ensemble dashed through with white pinstripes and complete with a pine green tie decorated in a clashing, but somehow not repellently so, pattern of squares with white outlines- for his meeting, has been entirely snuffed out.

"The bank said no?" Phillip asks, already certain of the answer.

"Emphatically," Barnum replies. " _Repeatedly_ ," he adds for emphasis, the words accompanied by a slight roll of his eyes. "I don't think there's a banker left in the country I can fool into loaning me more money." Defeat emanates from him. It's ill-fitting, and Phillip already hates the sight of it.

"We'll figure something out, Phineas," he promises, crossing from the vanity to arch forward on his toes and lay a hand on the base of Barnum's neck, his fingertips stroking through the curls resting on the taller man's nape.

A soft smile unfurls slowly across Barnum's face, and he presses the softest of kisses to Phillip's forehead. "Come on," he murmurs, his gaze brimming with tenderness. "We have a train to catch."

 

.v.

 

Anne, W.D., Charles, Lettie, and the rest of the oddities have gathered at the site where Barnum's Circus once stood tall; a safe haven for the unusual at the heart of the city that so callously rejected them. They're sifting through the charred rubble for anything salvageable when Phillip and Barnum arrive.

Phillip fiddles with the collar of his shirt, trying to pull it up high as possible to conceal the still very visible welt glaring in a seething pink dotted with sickly greens and garish purples across his throat.

Barnum sends him a sad look, the age-worn creases in his forehead and lines above the bridge of his nose deepening. Phillip knows that Barnum, much as he loves a good show, doesn't mean to shame him, but he can't suppress the anxious twisting in his gut when Barnum fixes him in an intent stare and tells him softly, "Phil, they have to know. They _deserve_ to."

Phillip steels himself and nods. These people are his dearest friends, his _family_. With Barnum's hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, offering him comfort and support, they venture into the remains of the world of Barnum's- no, _their_ own design.

Eyes and heads are raised at their approach.

Debris clogging his throat, Phillip just manages to explain the reason for the notable bruises discoloring his skin.

Anne is the first to first to step forward. "Was this because of me?" She asks quietly, her eyes misting and lower lip quivering. "Because I rejected you?"

"God, _no_ ," Phillip assures her, horrified at the very idea. "No, of course not. Never. _Never_ ," he promises. He takes her hand, meaning to give it a consolatory squeeze, and finds her arms being flung around him, instead. After a moment of surprise at the uncharacteristically bold expression of affection from the always dignified young woman, he wraps his arms about her lithe form, in turn, and breathes in the sweet scent of her hair where it rests against her shoulder.

Lettie breaks next, her voice unsteady as she lovingly admonishes, "God's sake, if it isn't one of you being a fool, it's the other." She, too, takes Phillip into a hug, rubbing at his back in a shockingly maternal fashion. "Carlyle, if you haven't realized that we need you…"

"Who else can we trust to keep Barnum from running us all into the ground?" Charles pipes up, clutching at his general doll that he was luckily able to recover.

The rest of the troupe nods and chimes in with their agreement. It's solid, concrete, and unhesitating.

Phillip manages a choked, but genuine laugh, and the joy cautiously, tenuously grasping his heart tightens its hold when he sees Barnum smiling, that familiar light dancing bright gold behind his eyes.

Soon, everyone, The Lord of Leeds, Chang and Eng, The Irish Giant, the Dog Boy, the Albinos, the dancers, Constantine, even W.D. Wheeler, with whom Phillip began to strike up the most tenuous of acquaintanceships, are gathered around Phillip, affectionately jostling his shoulders, squeezing them, patting his back, and rumpling his hair.

"Don't you _ever_ scare us like that, again," Anne says. Her voice is soft, broken, but there is a steely, resolute glint in her eyes that Phillip almost flinches away from.

"We'll cage you up to make sure you can't get your hands on anything you could use to harm yourself," W.D. proclaims. It's a joke, surely, but the gleam in his dark eyes is as unrelenting as his sister's, and Phillip has reason to believe that the trapeze artist would make good on that "joke", and more than a few members of the company would be willing to assist him in doing so.

"Phillip," Barnum says. His hand comes down on Phillip's shoulder, kneading it gently. Phillip turns to face him, and Barnum repositions himself to stand before him. His other hand comes down on Phillip's shoulder, his gaze teeming with passionate conviction. "There's _no such thing_ as a life that has no value. Don't listen to what anyone outside of this company says. I promise you that most any life is precious, and yours is more precious to me, and to everyone in this circus, than you could ever know."

"Hear, hear!" The Lord of Leeds concurs.

"Damn straight," Lettie adds, her eyes shining.

Phillip steadily holds Barnum's gaze. This man has been his superior for so long; always a level above him, just out of reach, erecting his own walls as swiftly, resolutely, and unthinkingly as he breaks down all of Phillip's. At first, the barriers standing between them were societal- a man of such ill-repute and lowly origins enlisting a high-class playwright with a strong family legacy behind him. It was unthinkable.

Then, entirely mental- Barnum is married, Phillip's feelings for him are criminal, depraved, and forbidden. Never mind that they have absolutely no chance of being requited. Two men of their status daring to explore a relationship with one another would be carted off by the police and brutalized as deemed fit, in a heartbeat, for their appalling perversion.

But, upon the destruction of so many walls, Phillip has felt the dynamic between them shifting, altering, undergoing a metamorphosis to echo the one that Barnum has, more or less, pushed Phillip's life and the philosophies and principals governing that life, to go through.

Looking over the faces of the people that he now regards as _family_ , far more than the withered, hate-filled visages that house the same blood as his own within their veins, people of all shapes, sizes, colors, and backgrounds, all beautiful in their own exceptional ways, larger society's perception of beauty be damned, Phillip wants to give back to them. To _all_ of them.

Thus, a solution comes to him, at last. He owns ten percent of the show. He took his cut weekly, knowing very well the recklessness of the man he was in the employ of. With that money, they can save Barnum's Circus, resurrect it like a phoenix born anew from the ashes left behind.

Barnum's smile as he takes Phillip's hand and grasps it firmly, agreeing to the only condition of Phillip's solution- that he accept Phillip as a partner and equal, and give him a fifty-percent share of the show and all of its profits- outshines the sun and any and every other celestial body that intrigues the most unconventional man.

They can rebuild. They _will_ rebuild. Their family will have a home, again. And, Phillip just dares to hope, the joy that P.T. Barnum brought into his life will remain to fill the space it has carved out for itself in his heart.

 

.v.

 

Rebuilding, naturally, is not an easy process. The powerful gusts of wind rolling in from the sea seem to make it their mission to impede the troupe and the workers that Barnum has hired on to help with the relocation. Phillip, W.D., Constantine, the Elephant-Skinned Man, the Dog Boy, and Barnum, himself, ever a diligent working man even when he has laborers at his disposal, find themselves chasing down tarps and the materials stitched together- dyed vibrant reds and golds, of course- to form the tents as they're swept up, flipping end over end toward the sea and the tarmac beyond the construction site.

Phillip's body is unaccustomed to any degree of manual labor, and his biceps positively _ache_ after every swing of the sledgehammers being used to drive the tent spikes into the ground.

W.D. chuckles at him, amused at the "pretty boy's suffering", when he catches Phillip wincing and nursing the soreness throbbing mutely in his right arm. Prior to emerging from his chrysalis as a new man, Phillip would be indignant and mortified, tempted to respond to the elder Wheeler sibling's laughter with a crude gesture to express his offense.

Now, he replies with a hint of a smirk, "Quit admiring my pretty face and get back to work."

Shaking his head, W.D. wipes the sweat from his brow with a grin and says, "Yes, sir."

Wrangling and corralling all of the animals into their new stables, stalls, and caravans is a trial of its own. Barnum just narrowly avoids losing a finger to the biggest of the lions, a beast aptly named Titan, and Phillip is ready to kill him for the strain the incident puts on his blood pressure. It's only under the very real threat of Lettie handcuffing Barnum to Phillip at Phillip's behest that Barnum surrenders, hands up and palms open, and acquiesces to staying within arm's reach of Phillip and twenty feet _away_ from snapping teeth and trampling hooves.

It's raining on the fifth day of reconstruction, when everyone works together to pull the red and gold striped canvas over its frame. The ropes are slippery, and Phillip flinches at the memory of the coarse material biting into his skin as the braided fibers scrape his palms and fingers. Barnum's stalwart presence at his right side, close enough for Phillip's shoulder to brush against his bicep, and Anne on Phillip's left, her features intent with concentration, lend him the strength to work through the pain and the harrowing recollection that goes hand in hand with it, and secure the rope tight around its corresponding spike.

Flashes of lightning split the solid canvas of sky, and thunder rumbles off in the distance as Charles ties the last bit of rope down. These conditions are as unconventional for the backdrop of an optimistic rebirth as Phillip could imagine. The heavy downpour and spidery white veins flickering and slicing through the darkened horizon over the sea are much better suited for a funeral than a fresh start.

Though, as they all gather in the main tent, each of them soaked, the men in no more than their shirts and trousers, Barnum's sleeves rolled up to his elbows, W.D.'s suspenders dangling loose at his waist, and Phillip trying his best to wring out his completely drenched clothing, the women wringing out and patting down their hair, and the Dog Boy shaking water from his furry face all over a displeased Chang and Eng, much to Charles's amusement, the sense of accomplishment is staggering.

Pulses of acute giddiness spike the air, and, though there is still work to be done- lights to be strung up, sand to pour onto the floor, rings to construct, stands to bring in for the crowds to occupy- no one can contain their grin.

"O'Malley!" Barnum calls.

The man, water dripping from his favorite black bowler hat, hurries to Barnum's side and brandishes a bottle of champagne.

"Thank you," Barnum says, beaming. His eyes glow with the intensity of his excitement as he takes the bottle by the neck with one hand, and pulls Phillip toward him with the other. He holds the bottle out to Phillip and asks, his voice deep and saturated with pride and affection, "Ready, partner?"

Phillip beams. He places his hands over Barnum's, and, together, they pop the cork on the bottle.

"Everyone," Barnum declares as O'Malley rushes about, handing out glasses. "Welcome to your new home!"

Cheers ring out, laced with Lettie's hearty, jubilant laughter. Glasses are clinked together as champagne is poured into them, there are many hugs and clapping of shoulders to go around, and the Three-Legged man dances a little jig.

Barnum's hand on the small of Phillip's back is a steady presence throughout the celebration, and when the din has begun to quiet down, he turns his body toward Phillip and regards him with a surging, voluminous amount of fondness that nearly sweeps Phillip off of his feet. "This is all thanks to you," he says softly, emphasizing the statement with a sweeping gesture to encompass the interior of the tent around them.

Phillip swallows, overcome by the love and happiness swelling within him. "Me? God, no," he insists, purposefully hearkening back to the words he once used to shoot down any remote possibility that he had ever seen, or would ever see, one of Barnum's shows. 

"You saved them from the hardships I brought upon us all. And I…" Barnum's eyes shine with a sheen of moisture.

Phillip's own eyes grow damp.

"Phillip, darling… you saved _me_ in more ways than you will ever know."

Although they are among friends and family, Phillip deems kissing Barnum an act that requires more daring than he is capable of. At least, for now. So, he takes Barnum's hand, instead, and presses the kiss to his knuckles that he was unable to, the night, before.

Barnum's resulting smile just about bowls him over.

Phillip unintentionally catches Anne's eye as she chats with Lettie, and Anne's gaze flits over the pair of men, lighting up with a knowing gleam. Quite suddenly, Phillip's cheeks are all too warm, and he feels very much like a deer staring down the barrel of an unusually lovely hunter's shotgun. Any concerns he may have had about jeopardizing Barnum's safety, however, are ameliorated in an instant as Anne smiles, shaking her head fondly.

Thank God. Bless her heart and soul.

"You've lost your mind, Carlyle," she mouths.

And, Phillip believes that he most likely has. But, surrendering even a portion of one's sanity seems to be a prerequisite of falling for Phineas Taylor Barnum- something that Phillip no longer has any reason to regret.

 

.v.

 

A sneeze rings out, echoing through the cavernous front room of the Barnum house.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes," Barnum says.

"Speak for yourself," Phillip replies. His nose twitches, and his upper half is pitched forward by another forceful sneeze. His sopping clothing clings to every inch of his skin, and he feels all too like a drowned rat. A drowned rat that had a very productive day, but a drowned rat, all the same. And, Barnum, he's noticed, has a tendency to gloss over, diminish, even ignore his own needs when caught up in other things. The man's vision seems to tunnel, blinding him to everything but making reality live up to his fantasies, or the closest approximation of them attainable. His relationships with others, his health, his safety, his _life_ are all negligible when he has a goal he is working toward.

Phillip will devote everything he has to changing this, even if it means mothering the man. "You were rubbing at your shoulders as much as I was, when you were certain no one was looking," he points out with a firmness tempered by his concern.

Barnum's hands hang at his sides, surprise stilling him as it catches him off his guard. Muscles in his jaw work as he stares at Phillip, and the thoughts swimming and racing through his mind are almost visible in his eyes and the creasing of his brow. At last, he heaves a sigh and nods, as if having arrived at a decision. "Come along, then," he murmurs.

Phillip shoots his partner a questioning look, but finds himself being steered toward the bathroom in lieu of a response. Wordlessly, Barnum draws a bath, and the sound of the rushing water partnered with the steam rising up from the collecting pool filling the porcelain tub, already tempts Phillip to sink in and soak his tired, aching muscles. But, this is Barnum's home, and his bathroom, and his bathtub, and…

"P.T.?"

Barnum answers him with an inquisitive murmur.

"Are… What's happening here, exactly?"

"Surely you don't need an explanation. Your eyes are still in proper working order, aren't they?"

Phillip bites out a dry, unamused laugh. "They work just fine, yes." The _but_ hangs in the air between them. He studies Barnum curiously, watching with an intent stare as the older man sticks his hand into the water to check the temperature, and adjusts the knobs as necessary.

Without any warning, Barnum drops his trousers, and a flood of scarlet heat rushes to Phillip's cheeks. Every lesson repeatedly ingrained and browbeaten into him _insists_ that he promptly cover his eyes, close them, turn around, leave the room, perhaps consider consultation with the Lord above and asking forgiveness for partaking in such vulgar, heathen behavior. These "lessons" were taught to him by the same people who looked at Anne as if she were so far beneath them, she didn't even meet the criteria for being regarded as human. So, swallowing, his mouth very, very dry, Phillip finds that he isn't all that inclined to heed them.

He gets a decent eyeful of Barnum's legs; long, strong, sculpted, filled out, and tight with muscle built and toned over years of physically demanding labor. And, a bit more than an eyeful of the man's most intimate parts.

Wanton heat descends like a blush over his body, knotting in his stomach.

Barnum acknowledges Phillip's roaming eyes with a smirk. "You don't intend to bathe fully dressed, do you?" He asks.

Phillip jerks out of his voyeuristic appraisal, and turns his attention to the removal of his own heavy, sodden garments. He observes Barnum making fast work of his tie and the buttons on his shirt, and slides his own suspenders down his shoulders with comparatively unskilled and unsure hands. He's unfastening the third button on his shirt when it hits him that he has _scars_. On his left pectoral, on his stomach, on his backside; faint cicatrixes and burn marks. Angry welts. There's a spot a few centimeters above his left nipple where the hair smoldered away and may never grow back. And, that's not even taking into account the ones incised into his skin by the wrath of a _person_ , rather than one of nature's elements.

The cloud of self-consciousness looming over him shrinks considerably when he discerns a number of spidery white lines engraved into Barnum's skin- on his legs, marring the lightly tanned flesh on the man's defined abdomen and visible under the trail of dark hairs dusted over the peaks and valleys of muscle.

"P.T.," Phillip whispers, stunned, and more than a little distraught.

"Yes?" Barnum is in the process of slipping his shirt down his arms as he turns to face Phillip. When their eyes meet, he freezes, mouth coming open.

Phillip's jaw quavers. He wants, so badly, to reach out and touch Barnum, to run his hands over every inch of the surface area of the man's body. To sink in beneath his skin and make a home for himself in Barnum's heart, right beside Charity, Caroline, Helen, and the Circus. But, he lowers his eyes and clenches at the ends of his own shirt, balling the material into his fists. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, the words lodging like gravel in his throat. "For whoever hurt you, I--"

"It was years ago," Barnum tells him softly. "Likely before you were even born."

The reminder of the age difference between them is unwelcome for more than a few reasons that Phillip tries, resolutely, to keep from dominating the forefront of his thoughts. Chief among them being that a man close to twenty years his senior will deteriorate faster, lose his spark, his zeal, his powerful and commanding presence to the unforgiving effects of time, succumb more easily to illness, d-- Phillip silences the remainder of that thought, forcefully derailing its train. His heart just might shatter, the rest of him fracturing and breaking along with it, were he to entertain it a moment longer.

Barnum is speaking, his voice gruff, barely above a whisper, his eyes dark with sorrow. "Unlike yours. Which are new. Fresh." He crosses the distance between them and ghosts his first two fingers over the scabbing wound on Phillip's forehead.

Phillip does his best not to wince at the gentle touch.

Barnum's attention, and his touch, shift to the darkened patch of burned skin on Phillip's chest, accentuated by the distinct hairlessness surrounding it. Holding Phillip's stare, he dips his head and lowers himself to kiss and lick at the burn mark.

A gasp is reeled out of Phillip's throat. His hands reach out for Barnum automatically, clinging to the material of his shirt, his broad shoulders. Barnum's mouth continues to traverse Phillip's chest, covering it in open-mouthed kisses, licking long stripes over it, nipping and sucking to leave his own marks fueled by passion and devotion, rather than aversion and disapproval. Shivering with rapture and need, Phillip presses into him, aware of more and more steadily intensifying heat pooling below his waistband. "Mmm, _Phin_."

He's answered by a soft hum beginning to lower and transform into a growl. The sound of it nearly incites a moan from Phillip.

Barnum's mouth rests just above the waistband of Phillip's trousers, and the amorous haze over Phillip's brain is begging for his trousers to be undone, for hands to take hold of him, roughly, tenderly, the manner makes no difference, and bring him to the brink with expert ministrations, just as before.

He's already had his turn, though.

"I…" Phillip licks at his upper lip, attempting to moisten it, and gulps. "I want to try something." He feels Barnum's smile against his skin, and goosebumps break out all over his arms.

"Do you?" Barnum rights himself, and Phillip misses his warmth and the contact between them even as he knows that it will resume very shortly if he is granted permission to "try" that "something". Stepping away, Barnum shuts off the tap, and leans against the side of the tub, opening his legs. "Then, by all means," he says, grinning and eyes sparkling with intrigue. "Be my guest."

Entranced, as that is the only fitting word, Phillip moves forward, lust hot and simmering under his skin. He drops gradually to his knees, his heart hammering. He's never done this before. Never allowed himself to imagine doing this. His father would learn of it, somehow, and punish him accordingly in the privacy of the Carlyle estate; canings, locking him in his room, threats, name calling ( _"No son of the Carlyle line will be a cocksucking degenerate."_ ), seizing him and shoving him into furniture… He looks up, into his partner's eyes, in need of reassurance.

A strong hand rests comfortingly on his head, callused fingertips- Mr. Carlyle's hands are smooth. Phillip is certain he has never put in a day of manual labor his entire life. The most he has ever seen his father exert himself, is when he raised his cane to- stroking at his scalp. "Phil, delighted as I am to see you finally living a little crazy, you really don't have to do this if you don't want to," Barnum assures him.

"I do," Phillip assures right back, and knows with absolute, irrevocable certainty that he does. "I want to do something for you. I…" _Enough talking_ , he decides. He grabs Barnum's thighs, lightly, both to hold him in place and to anchor himself. Then, he breathes in and brings his face forward, tongue venturing out to rasp over Barnum's abdominal muscles and the angry ghosts and imprints of cuts scored over them. He dips his tongue into Barnum's navel, litters kisses and teasing nips on the showman's hips, and, summoning up a great deal of courage, licks a long stripe up the substantial column of secret velvet flesh between his legs.

He feels Barnum shifting to keep himself grounded as a staggered exhalation leaves him, and Phillip's body floods and quivers with dizzying elation, rendering him nearly lightheaded with it.

It's all the encouragement that he needs. Excited, now, trepidation wholly discarded, Phillip laves and lavishes and suckles with his tongue, lips, and mouth, determined to coax more pleased sounds from his partner. He eagerly, gleefully absorbs them all, lost in the thrill of eliciting them, jubilant static in his mind drowning out everything but his own hums and quiet moans that rise in the back of his throat to answer Barnum, and every reverent breath, sigh, and soft moan issuing from the showman's mouth.

And, the vibrations of Phillip's responses seem to heighten the pleasure for Barnum. His fingers tangle in Phillip's hair, but he maintains enough self-possession to not hurt Phillip as he tugs ever so lightly at the roots, further mussing the hopelessly disarrayed brunet strands. He guides Phillip's pace, assuming control of the situation, and Phillip is grateful for it, happy to have the reassuring and almost comforting familiarity of being at Barnum's command.

Barnum trembles beneath him the more exuberantly Phillip pours himself into the task at hand. He growls low in his throat and whispers Phillip's name, hips twitching. "That's it. Yes. Oh, _Phillip_ , _Phillip_. You're doing so well, so--"

The strange, foreign, but not entirely unpleasant taste lingering on Phillip's tongue when he brings Barnum to his climax, feels the man's limbs loosen and go slack, tension sucked rather literally from them, is hardly a bother. It's easily overridden by the rush of self-gratification that fills Phillip when he's tugged upright and pulled into a deep, rewarding kiss, praise showered upon him.

"You did amazingly. _Absolutely_ amazing. God, Phillip." Barnum kisses him, again, rubbing his forehead against Phillip's. "You were so good. So brilliant. Simply extraordinary, _especially_ for your first time."

He has never received such ample compliments delivered in such complete earnestness. Earnest even for P.T. Barnum, who could charm a starving man out of a guaranteed three-course meal by promising him a banquet were the man to dance in the streets of Manhattan dressed as a clown.

Smiling, giddy and exhausted and exceptionally pleased with himself, Phillip realizes that he could get used to this. And, that thought frightens him.

He has no time to fully immerse himself in that fear, however, as Barnum rids both of them of their shirts, kissing at the juncture of Phillip's neck and shoulder and leaving another possessive mark right beside the curve of Phillip's jaw, and, removes Phillip's trousers and pants, then, scoops Phillip into his arms and takes him into the bathtub with him.

It's a tight squeeze, Barnum almost too tall to fit properly, and, under normal circumstances, Phillip would object to being bathed like a child. But, as he has learned many a time over, P.T. Barnum is nigh impossible to say no to. At least, as far as maintaining that no goes.

Barnum tenderly washing his chest, stomach, and hair as he soaks in the hot, but not enough to scald them, water isn't exactly something that Phillip cares to argue against, anyway. Especially when he gets to return the favor.

 

.v.

 

"Phillip."

A petulant groan emits from Phillip, and he shifts about, readjusting his duvet and the other blankets to pull them up to his ears.

"Phil," Barnum repeats.

"Mmm?" Phillip half-grunts, half-slurs. His eyes remain shut, as if his eyelids have been glued together. It's a struggle to even open them to peer at his partner.

"It's a quarter past two."

_A quarter past two?_ How has he slept in so late?

"You're not sick, are you?" Barnum's voice softens, and Phillip feels him approach and the bed dip as Barnum sits down beside him. 

Finally, Phillip manages to open his eyes, and turns to face Barnum. "No," he insists. "I'm not sick." His brain transmits a message to his arms and legs: _Get up. Time to start the day._ But, the message goes unreceived. No matter how he wills himself to move, his body will not cooperate.

Barnum runs a hand through Phillip's hair, intent hazel eyes flickering over him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah. I just…" Phillip forces himself into an upright position, and realizes that- the sluggish pace of the simple movement, _any_ movement, his limbs leadened down, heavy as cinderblocks, an inability to make his body do what he wants it to, leaving his mind feeling like a prisoner trapped inside of it, unable to pen so much as a single loathsome _sentence_ \- he's having one of _those_ days.

Days that warranted his father sharply rebuking him: _Lazy. Appallingly_ lazy _. You shame and disgrace us by being such a weak, sickly whelp._

"You know, when Helen and Caroline look as worn down as you do, I make them stay in bed," Barnum says. His tone is soft, but there's an unmistakable paternal sternness to it.

"P.T., I'm _fine_. Honestly. My body is in perfect health. It's just…" _My_ mind _that is diseased._

"Sickness of the body, the mind, the heart…" His stare unfaltering, Barnum caresses Phillip's temple and the smooth hairs of his closely cropped sideburn. "The distinction is hardly of significance. All of them are equally deadly."

For not the first time, it occurs to Phillip just how worldly and experienced Barnum is. With an eighteen year head start in life on Phillip, it really should come as no surprise, that Barnum, madcap, imprudent, and prone to precipitous actions as he is, has a wealth of knowledge on a variety of subjects, including ones that Phillip's parents may as well have closed their eyes and ears to, right along with their minds, their ignorance is so glaring.

"You truly are unlike anyone I've ever met," Phillip murmurs, wonderstruck.

Barnum's lips quirk into a smile. "That's very kind of you. Now, why don't you continue that streak of magnanimity, and get some rest? I'll handle all of the show's affairs, today."

"Phin," Phillip protests.

"Phil," Barnum shoots back.

They hold each other's stares, a non-verbal tug of war commencing. At last, it is Phillip who relents. He surrenders to the sloth encumbering his being, and settles back down, boldly resting his head in Barnum's lap.

Barnum makes no move to push him away. "You're easier than the girls are," he says, teasing smirk on his face and twinkle in his eye as he resumes combing his fingers through Phillip's hair.

"I believe your goal was to get me to rest," Phillip retorts, smiling softly. "A task I find quite impossible to undertake when your mouth is open and words are coming out of it."

Barnum clucks his tongue. Phillip can sense the emergence of his damnable smirk, _hear_ it. "You love my voice and you know it."

"I do," Phillip professes, halfway to sleep enveloped in Barnum's presence, and his warmth and his wonderful, tingling touch that reminds Phillip, without fail, that he's alive, regardless of how lifeless he may feel on the inside. "There are few sounds I cherish more." He breathes in, and, under the familiar and ever enticing scents of Barnum's cologne and the laundry soaps he uses on his needlessly extravagant attire, Phillip detects an unmistakable whiff of frost clinging to the man. "You were out?" He asks.

"I made a quick trip down the street to try to talk to Charity," Barnum says. His hand has moved to the base of Phillip's neck, long fingers kneading and coaxing a contented hum from Phillip.

"And, how did that endeavor pan out?"

A hint of a sneer curdles Barnum's usually unfailingly pleasant voice. "I came face to face with her father, who took a great deal of pride in informing me that she 'wasn't available' to speak to me."

Phillip has never met Mr. Hallett, but he has decided that his feelings toward the man are a far cry from genial. "Well, she'll break her silence sooner or later. You have daughters to consider. Daughters who are undeniably enamored with their father." He hears the smile pulling at Barnum's mouth, and rubs his cheek against the ringmaster's thigh. "And, seem to have inherited their father's uncanny ability to harness all the fervor and fury of a force of nature when they have their hearts set on something."

Barnum's soft chuckle washes over Phillip, and Phillip rolls over to take Barnum's hand into his own and press soft kisses to his fingers.

"Things will work out, and your father in-law is a blind, bastardly fool if he still finds you unworthy of his daughter."

"'Blind, bastardly fool'," Barnum repeats. His smile reaches his eyes as he bends to kiss Phillip's nose. "A dead-on description with some excellent usage of alliteration."

"Thank you," Phillip smirks and touches his nose to Barnum's. "I'm glad that my years spent hunched over a piece of parchment and drinking myself near to death to get the words to flow right _finally_ proved useful."

Barnum butts Phillip's forehead and nips at his lower lip. "Sleep. I don't want to hear another word about death from you." He says it lightly, but Phillip knows better than to cross the line that has been drawn.

 Eyes fluttering closed, Phillip nestles back into a comfortable position on Barnum's solid thigh, and falls asleep to the sound of the showman humming softly; a melody that Phillip recognizes, but cannot place with the sweet haze of sleep descending on his mind.

 

.v.

 

An afternoon excursion to stock up on supplies- groceries, assorted nonsensical bits and pieces and baubles that captured Barnum's eye, Phillip's half-hearted eye-rolls only encouraging him to acquire more of them, new scarves and overcoats for the fast-approaching winter season, a plethora of books, and something that Barnum made a big to-do about concealing from Phillip, tutting and tucking into the interior of his overcoat with an impish gleam in his eye and that ever-present and riling smirk curling the corners of his mouth- and enjoy a quick lunch of sandwiches, soups, and coffee, has Phillip feeling something close to effervescent. He chuckles at Barnum's mocking recitation of yet another disparaging article in the paper penned by the circus's "biggest fan", one James Gordon Bennett.

In moments like these, the hollow, numbing life that Phillip lived among the swells feels as though it belongs to another man. A man who never got to experience such joy, contentment, and purpose as to fear losing them.

The moment doesn't last, however.

Reentering the home, Barnum finds a telegram addressed to him. The sender is Charity.

Phillip watches Barnum's eyes flit over the contents of the telegram, creases corrugating the skin on his forehead, his arched brows knitting. His stomach twists like a washrag wrung by aggressive hands not keen on any semblance of mercy, and it _plummets_ when Barnum's face blanches, the color draining right out of it. "Phin?" He ventures in no more than a hushed murmur.

Barnum's hands shake as he holds the telegram in a white-knuckled grip. "Charity is…" He swallows, disbelieving the words coming out of his own mouth, even as he utters them. "Prolonging her stay with her father. She… " A bitter version of a smile far closer to a grimace pulls at his mouth. "She has reason to believe that there are irreconcilable issues with our marriage."

"Phineas, I'm so sorry," Phillip chokes out. His throat constricts and every shallow breath that he manages to intake is painful.

"Nearly an entire lifetime," Barnum murmurs. "Countless letters, dreams, hopes…" His jaw trembles. His eyes cloud over, all incredulity vanishing, dissipating cruelly as they mist, and Phillip can see the foundations holding Barnum together begin to split at the seams and buckle under his grief. "Twenty-five years devoted to giving her everything I ever promised her." His eyes meet Phillip's at last, and Phillip's heart aches as if it is cracking, shattering into fragments sharp as shrapnel, as he sees the man he loves crumbling before him. "What was it all for, Phillip?" Barnum croaks. "For her to return to, take _my daughters to_ the man who… ?" His shoulders cave, and he _breaks_.

Phillip, never one for bold, sweeping declarations or earthmoving promises, comes silently to Barnum, wraps him in his arms, and whispers soothingly into the feather-soft kisses he presses to Barnum's shoulder and the crook of his neck. He hopes with all that he has, as Barnum tremors with the force of his muffled sobs, that he can piece the man who changed, and _saved_ his life, back together.

 

.v.

 

They're awake long into the night, nursing drinks. The amount of liquor that Barnum has consumed has Phillip more than mildly concerned for him, hypocritical as that concern is, and Phillip runs through a mental checklist of the symptoms of cirrhosis he once came across in an Encyclopedia. Barnum is in the clear, for now, but… _Sickness of the body, the mind, the heart…_ Phillip thinks, resolving to monitor the older man, just in case. _All of them_ are _equally deadly._

"Recite another one, Phillip. Please," Barnum murmurs. His gaze is listless and clouded as they sit side by side on the sofa in the main sitting room, his mind lost in its own maze of labyrinthian canals. Phillip wishes it were possible to bodily retrieve- _rescue_ \- Barnum from them.

The firelight casts harsh shadows on Barnum's face, defining every line worn into his skin by the passage of time, the weathering effects of stress, pain, sorrow.

Phillip shifts closer and silently takes the bottle of whisky from Barnum, placing it on the floor. He eases the older man into his lap, and Barnum offers no resistance, lying back, melding into Phillip's thighs as they pillow his head.

Phillip's throat hurts from extended minutes, hours, of speaking, but he obliges. How could he ever refuse? To deny Phineas Barnum anything- within reason- becomes more of a Herculean feat with every passing day. Barnum isn't a big proponent of Shakespeare, or any playwright and their works, but the prose of the most widely renowned among them seems to offer him some measure of comfort, so Phillip begins to do as requested.

" _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_ " He starts, softly. He combs his fingers through Barnum's hair, the pads of his fingers scraping ever so lightly at Barnum's scalp in the manner that Phillip knows he enjoys. Barnum just about purred the first time Phillip worked up the courage and curiosity to experimentally stroke his hair. As he continues, pulling the rest of the stanzas from memory, a voice at the back of Phillip's mind wonders, perhaps irrationally, glass-like shards piercing his heart and drawing blood, _Is this_ my _fault?_

When sleep has taken Barnum, the tension wound tight in his muscles and weighing heavily upon him expunged from his body, at last, Phillip eases out from under him. He lays Barnum back on the sofa assiduously, and takes a moment to soak him in. He runs the back of a finger over the creases in Barnum's brow, smoothed in his restful state. The rest of the showman's ever striking features are just as peaceful, chestnut eyelashes fluttering ever so softly with the languid rise and fall of his chest.

Phillip has seen various shades of P.T. Barnum over the months he has been acquainted with the man. More so, now that they're living under the same roof. Brooding, plotting, lost in thought, brimming with excitement, charisma oozing from every pore with the aid of a showman's smile, a smirk that rankles every nerve, stunning sensual prowess, sadness that makes him crumble in on himself and snuffs out the dazzling flames dancing behind his eyes…

This shade, one that Phillip is still becoming familiar with, just might be one of his favorites.

_Tranquility_.

Something that Barnum's life so seldom permits him to experience.

The heartrending dark circles prominent under Barnum's eyes are a testament to the scarce presence of this hue, and a surge of protective feelings for the seemingly invincible ringmaster steals the air right out of Phillip's lungs. He almost chokes, his outward mask of composure cracking. Phillip longs, his throat practically _itching_ for it, to grab the bottle of whisky off the floor and toss every remaining drop back in one go. His mind spins, tilting off-center and pitching violently toward the knives that Barnum has in the kitchen. Knives with long, sharp blades. It would be _so easy_ to take one and slice open the main artery on--

Phillip looks at Barnum and nearly slaps himself for being so ridiculous and self-centered.

If he were to die, who would look after Barnum and ensure that he doesn't get himself killed with another one of his crazy ideas?

Latching onto this thought, holding it close, Phillip takes up a pen and paper and begins to write. His phrasing requires a moment or two of consideration, but the heart of a writer beating still within him guides the strokes of his pen, weaving words with skillful precision and composing a letter that effectively addresses everything he means to say.

To request.

He reads it over thoroughly twice, and then twice more to ensure that he is satisfied with it, and signs it, _Cordially, Phillip Carlyle_. He seals it in an envelope, and addresses it to the Halletts. Then, he lets himself _breathe_.

Carefully, he joins Barnum, once more, bringing a blanket with him, and drapes the blanket over the both of them.

He no longer has a position in society that enables him to "pull strings" and get what he wants, but, if there is one thing that he _can_ bank on, it's how much Caroline and Helen Barnum love their father. Pushing his face into Barnum's shoulder, Phillip lets sleep carry him off to dreamland in his partner's wake, praying that the Halletts are as eager to appease their granddaughters as anyone else who has spent a moment with those precious little girls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone really must scold me for being so verbose. I had no intention of making this a three-parter, but I guess it was destined to become one. 
> 
> Thank all of you, as always, for your immensely sweet, inspiring, and touching comments on the first part of this story, as well as my other works. Your reviews truly play a major role in keeping me going as a writer, even when my crippling self-doubt kicks in, and issues in my personal life overwhelm me until I feel, much like Phillip, as if I'm drowning in them. I appreciate every single person who leaves a kudos on my work, adds one of my stories to their bookmarks, and takes the time out of their day to type up a comment. 
> 
> All of you are wonderful people who deserve wonderful things.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for potentially triggering content, ahead. Heed the tags, and, as always, read onward with caution and remember that your safety, as my readers, comes first.

 

 

 

Shows still draw crowds that fill the stands to maximum capacity, and appraisals of these crowds reveal nothing but smiling faces and enthusiastic applause. Save, of course, for the straight-backed, ever stoic, and silently disapproving figure of Bennett, who sticks out like a statuesque vulture with oddly neat and sleek feathers amidst a gathering of happily clucking pheasants sporting pleasantly-colored plumage of all shades.

The continued success of the show that Barnum poured his lifeblood into creating restores some of the showman's buoyancy, and his performance as ringmaster is scintillating and captivating as ever… to the untrained eye.

Phillip, alone, it seems, sees the cracks in the flawless surface, the chinks in the suit of armor, the flickering of the once fiercely burning flame within Barnum, and the impact all of them have on the showman's usually blinding luminosity. They leave his vibrance and vitality dimmed significantly, distressingly close to halved.

During the opening number, Barnum will divert his eyes from the crowds and the acts surrounding him, and his gaze will seek out Phillip, locating him easily where he stands in the shadows behind the stands. It isn't until Phillip gives Barnum a smile fueled by as much enthusiasm as he can genuinely muster, that a small spark is set off behind Barnum's eyes. His posture improves, his voice crescendoing and sailing that much farther, his stride quickening, smoother, his movements grandiose as everyone has come to expect from him.

The pair reconvene in those same shadows after the crowds have cleared off and the rest of their family has departed for the changing areas. Their after-show greeting varies dependent on Barnum's mood. Last night, Barnum waited for Phillip to lay a gentle hand on his face, arch forward on the balls of his feet, and draw him into a kiss.

Tonight, Barnum approaches Phillip with a grin close to its normal brilliance. "Another sold out show," he says. He removes his beloved black top hat and playfully sets it on Phillip's head.

Phillip is surprised at the gesture, knowing quite well how much the piece of headwear belonging to Barnum's deceased father means to his partner, but he manages to beam, anyway, swept up in Barnum's infectious energy and the joy of seeing Barnum _happy_ after his wife effectively tore his world out from under him. "Didn't I tell you that the crowds come to see you?" He remarks with a pleased hum, his brows quirking.

Barnum adopts a lighthearted imitation of a pensive expression. "I believe you may have said something like that."

Phillip expels a breath of quiet laughter, and Barnum's grin reaches his eyes, the golden light more striking and vivacious than the threads, gildings, and buttons decorating his coat, shining in their depths, at last.

He gives his signature showman's cane an easy twirl, and places it behind Phillip's back, intending to reel him in.

Phillip stiffens on reflex, reminding himself that _It's_ ** _P.T._** _Not_ ** _father._** It's ** _Phineas, not father_** , as he feels the staff nearing his back.

Barnum, of course, doesn't miss the sudden change in Phillip's demeanor. "What is it?" He asks, dark eyes boring into Phillip as they flicker over him. "Talk to me, Phillip," he says softly.

"It's…" Phillip licks self-consciously at his lower lip. "A matter of no concern. Really," he replies automatically, unthinkingly.

Barnum's stare remains trained on him, the lines over the bridge of his nose deepening. "We've discussed this," he coaxes, employing that authoritative but gentle inflection, closer to paternal than Phillip likes to ruminate on for fear of what such introspection would reveal about his emotional psychology.

Because that inflection melts all of his resolve in an instant.

Sighing, Phillip murmurs, "Yes, we have." He has never wanted to address this topic. He's hoped that it would never come up, that disowning his parents, and being likewise disowned by them, would mean burying them and the values they ground into his brain, and the wounds they- his father, mostly, but his mother played her part by standing silently by and allowing it to happen- have inflicted.

But, Barnum has never been able to bury or abandon the shackles of his own past, so it's fitting that Phillip finds himself in the same position. After all, he wears the scars that his father carved into him both on his skin, and in the dark rooms and corridors of his mind. They aren't exactly well concealed.

From Barnum, at least.

"My father caned me, in the past," Phillip murmurs as softly as he can get away with. "Only a few times, and I was out of line every one of them, but--"

"Stop," Barnum commands.

Words die in the back of Phillip's throat. He feels scathing heat pouring from Barnum's eyes, and glances up to find storm clouds of severe choler darkening the ringmaster's magnetic features.

"Never excuse what your father did to you." Barnum whispers the demand, but it might as well be a seething growl. "There is no justification for any of it. Threatening to leave you homeless, browbeating you into compliance, _striking_ you with his own hand… No, not even with his own hand. He's too much of a coward for that. And, he talks of _you_ bringing _him_ shame and disgrace." He huffs out an embittered, venomous laugh. "No fate imaginable is cruel enough for that vile bastard."

Phillip can only stare into Barnum's dark eyes, wondering how he ever managed to deserve becoming an object- a _person_ \- worthy of such fierce protection. How he could possibly have warranted the dead end path of his life intersecting with the life path of someone who diverted his set trajectory, stretching his path on and on, farther than Phillip could have imagined. A man who constructed bridges out of sturdy planks and cables for Phillip to cross into a world of _safety,_ just as much of thrill and expeditions into uncharted terrain.

Gently, heartrendingly gently, his anger melting away and gaze softening the longer it remains fixed on Phillip, Barnum rests the cane against Phillip's backside just enough to draw Phillip into him. He covers Phillip's mouth with his own, the kiss tender, only becoming more passionate when Phillip raises up on the balls of his feet to deepen it.

Phillip threads his fingers into thick, silken curls, sighing at the warm and welcome firmness of Barnum's chest pressing into his.

Barnum smells faintly of sweat, overpowered by the heady musk of his cologne, a hint of peanut shells, and the distinct scent of the satiny material of his entrancing and prurient red coat.

It's a world away from Mr. Carlyle's scent; sterile, yet always perplexingly reminiscent of cobwebs and the dust that collects on wine bottles and accumulates in layers on ancient books left untouched on shelves for decades. A scent off-putting enough to make Phillip's nose twitch when his father came into close proximity. And, recoil in fear when he caught it on the air as footsteps approached his room, promising retribution after something he said or did caused his father's eyes to narrow into gleaming pinpricks of rage.

Barnum never brings to mind the harsh slap of a ruler against the inside of Phillip's wrist. The sting of a cuff to the back of the head partnered with a demand for Phillip to _pay attention_ , _straighten his posture_ , _keep his eyes off of that_ beguiling _man across the room_ , because Mr. Carlyle _will not have a_ ** _degenerate_** _for a son_.

As he breaks off to trail kisses along the curve of Barnum's jaw, the mild prick of Barnum's dusting of stubble on the soft flesh of Phillip's lips strangely pleasurable, and Barnum kisses at Phillip's pulse point, grazing it with his teeth, all thoughts of Phillip's father are purged from Phillip's mind.

And, Phillip couldn't be happier for it.

 

.v.

 

Seated on the ledge of the bathtub in the Barnum home, Phillip sobs and shudders with ecstasy as his body surrenders to the overpowering, _overwhelming_ suction and heat and ministrations of Barnum's mouth on him. He wraps his fingers in thick, dark curls, squeezing and tugging, his head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open.

He feels tempted, when he at last descends from the high, cheeks aflame, to apologize for the mess he's made. But, what Barnum didn't manage to see to floats in oddly fascinating milky drops that coalesce in the bathwater.

Barnum grins, quite pleased with himself, and kisses his way up Phillip's hips, stomach, ribs, chest, and throat, to his lips. Phillip melts right into the kiss, breathing and murmuring senseless words of gratitude against that awe-inspiring- for better and for worse- mouth.

"We're going to need to drain this out and run fresh bathwater, you know," Phillip says, brushing the tip of his nose against Barnum's.

Barnum chuckles. "Looking to singlehandedly up my water bill, I see."

" _Our_ water bill," Phillip corrects him. He considers, a pang firing off in his chest, stumbling over himself to retract that correction. _But_ , he realizes, _it feels_ right. Right in a way that so few things in his life did, up to this point. Partners share the load, after all, and Phillip _has_ been staying with Barnum and using his amenities.

"Yes," Barnum concurs, smiling as if Phillip is almost as precious and important to him as Charity, Caroline, Helen, and the Circus. As if he has taken something different, something more profound, from that simple correction. " _Ours_."

 

.v.

 

Wooden wheels creak, and hooves clomp into the dirt path leading to the Barnum estate, jarring Phillip from his slumber.

He sits upright, blinking bleary eyes at the blinding early morning sunlight streaming into the room, and running a hand through his hair, trying to figure out why a carriage would be pulling up to the house at this hour.

When the answer comes to him, he scrambles out of bed and into a pair of trousers, and tugs on the first shirt he finds strewn about the bedroom floor. He only realizes that said shirt belongs to _Barnum_ when the man's scent washes over him, the shirt hangs loosely over his comparatively more compact frame, and he discerns the color while hurrying to button it up.

_Lavender_.

For Christ's sake.

He rakes a comb through his tousled hair, attempting to style it into something approaching decency before abandoning the attempt altogether and flying down the stairs. He's just tucking Barnum's shirt into the waistband of his trousers when a knock sounds at the front doors.

Barnum shoots him a questioning look as he enters the front room, looking enviously put together. His eyes sweep over Phillip's still markedly sleep-disheveled appearance, crinkling at the edges with amusement. "Expecting someone, Phillip?"

"You could say that," Phillip answers, doing his best to keep his voice even and his features insouciant, determined to give nothing away.

Barnum's lips twitch into a smile, but he says nothing more as he strides to the doors. The moment he opens them, delighted squeals reach Phillip's ears.

"Daddy!" Two little voices chorus in perfect unison.

"Girls!" Barnum exclaims. Warm, hearty laughter to match his daughters' delight bubbles out of him as he opens his arms wide for two pint-sized whirlwinds clad in soft, pastel pink coats to hurl themselves at him. They nearly bowl him over in their zealousness.

Phillip beams from his spot by the stairs as he observes the reunion.

One that is _long_ overdue.

"Daddy, we missed you _so_ much!" Caroline says, burying her face in Barnum's midsection. "We were so worried we might never see you again."

"That would never happen. I'd never allow that," Barnum assures her. His voice trembles just perceptibly, dark eyes misting. He presses a kiss to the top of his eldest daughter's head to solidify that assurance.

"Have you missed us, too?" Helen asks, tugging at her father's hand and pressing her face into his palm.

"With every beat of my heart," Barnum promises. He uses his hand to tip Helen's head toward him to press a kiss to it, as well. Then, he steps back and regards his girls, his eyes glowing with so much love and pride, Phillip's heart swells to an almost painful degree at the sight of it. "Let me look at you," Barnum breathes.

Smiles light up Caroline and Helen's faces, happiness gleaming brightly in Helen's eyes, and Caroline's lower lip quivering as she wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks.

"You've grown so much," Barnum assesses, inciting giggles from the girls with yet more honeyed embellishment. "Soon enough, you'll be overtaking poor Phillip."

Phillip can only shake his head affectionately, giving his eyes a half-hearted roll.

"Phillip?" Helen exclaims.

"Phillip is here?" Caroline adds.

The sisters' eyes scan the room, lighting up the moment they land on what, or, rather, _who_ they're searching for.

Phillip only has time to chuckle and just begin to brace himself before he is similarly accosted. He stumbles backward, coming much closer to falling to the floor under the combined weight of the Barnum sisters. "How are my two favorite girls?" He asks.

"We had to go to school. It was awful," Helen informs him, scrunching up her nose in distaste for good measure.

Phillip smiles and catches Barnum's eye over Helen's head, finding a matching smile illuminating the older man's countenance.

"The other girls were mean," Caroline contributes. Her eyes shine with yet more tears. "They said terrible things about daddy, and about you."

Heart twisting just the tiniest bit, enough for it to register, to make his smile falter, Phillip has an idea of what those "terrible things" are.

_Adulterer_. _Disgrace_. _Scandals_.

He would be angry at New York's elite for subjecting _children_ to these concepts, to sowing such unforgiving judgement in their impressionable and easily malleable minds. But, he has come to expect no better. 

"Well, don't you pay those dreadful little prima donnas any mind," Barnum says. He grabs at the handles of the front doors, intending to close them, then curiously halts as he peers outside.

Phillip traverses the floor to Barnum's side, aware of Caroline and Helen trailing on his heels, and glances through the open doors to see an extravagantly dressed blond woman who could only be Mrs. Hallett, stepping gracefully, skirt lifted just high enough above her ankles to allow her safe, proper, respectable reentry, into a carriage.

"Phineas," Mrs. Hallett says politely.

Barnum's mouth twitches with uncharacteristic uncertainty. He looks humbled, and Phillip allows his fingertips to just graze Barnum's, offering him silent support. "Ma'am," Barnum starts. "I, um…" He clears his throat, casts a sidelong glance at Phillip, and his daughters, then turns back to his mother in-law and says, quietly, "Thank you."

"You may be at odds with my daughter, right now," Mrs. Hallett says. She looks equally as uncertain of her footing in this conversation. That, alone, speaks of years of estrangement between Barnum and his in-laws, and Phillip can only assume that class is to blame.

This assumption is followed by a rush of hot shame that eats at his stomach. He used to _be_ one of them- basking in his life among the swells and casually, sometimes even snidely, disregarding anyone beneath his station. Just like his parents expected of him.

"But," Mrs. Hallett goes on, "the happiness of those two beautiful little girls will _always_ be important."

Phillip feels Caroline and Helen brush past him to cross over the threshold, and Mrs. Hallett's lips quirk into a smile as her eyes land on her granddaughters.

The girls smile right back.

"Enjoy your stay with your father, dears."

"We will, grandma!" Helen calls, arching up on her tip-toes to project her voice farther.

Caroline adds, grabbing at the first few fingers on Barnum's right hand, "Thank you for bringing us to see daddy."

"Of course. No girl should be brought up without a father." Mrs. Hallett lifts her eyes from the girls to Barnum, and holds him in a tense stare, her expression unreadable. If she notices Phillip beside him, she has no outward reaction to his presence other than a very slight widening of her eyes. "I'll be back to pick you up, Sunday evening," she informs Caroline and Helen. With a last nod, she steps into the carriage, and the coachman closes the door behind her before climbing back into his own seat.

As the carriage pulls down the pathway in the direction it came with a tug at the reins, and shakes of the manes and nickers from the horses, Barnum rests his hands on his daughters' heads and guides them back into the house.

Phillip pulls the doors shut after them.

"I wonder what inspired that change of heart," Barnum murmurs, still dazed, stupefied, even.

"Phillip-- !" Helen bursts out.

"--Is quite famished and would love to sit down for a nice breakfast with these two charming little ladies." Phillip knows that he was, perhaps, a bit obvious in his haste to cut Helen off, but Barnum lets the matter slide with a mere furrowing of his brow and a questioning tilt of his head.

"I suppose I should begin preparing that nice breakfast, then," Barnum says. He dips his head toward his daughters. "How does that sound, girls?"

"We'd love that," Caroline says. Her eyes sparkle, but not from unshed tears, this time.

"Grandma and Grandpa's cooks aren't as good as you," Helen chimes in enthusiastically.

Barnum chuckles. "Few people are." He draws the girls to him and presses another kiss to each of their heads. When he stands upright, his hazel eyes are at their full luster. Maybe even brighter. He runs a hand through Phillip's hair as he passes him en route to the kitchen, and Phillip grins after Barnum's retreating form.

Once he's certain that Barnum is out of earshot, Phillip hunkers down beside the two girls to place himself at their eye-level, and tells them, his voice hushed, conspiratorial, "Let's keep that letter a secret, okay? It's meant to be a surprise for your daddy."

They nod seriously, and Phillip catches himself thinking for the very first time, that if he had children of his own, if he ever _could_ , he'd want them to be half as precious as Caroline and Helen Barnum.

Want them to _be_ Caroline and Helen Barnum.

His heart feels like it's in his throat, constricting his windpipe. He has no business even _thinking_ this. He's already intruding upon their lives, surely widening the rift between Barnum and Charity, wandering about their home as if he belongs there.

As if he ever _could_.

Tugs at his fingers and hands extricate him from these thoughts, and he does his best to listen as Helen and Caroline practically talk over one another in their eagerness to divulge how boring and dull school was, and that Caroline has been practicing pliés and pirouettes and really wants to learn how to do a grand jeté. Despite his honest effort to follow the ambling conversations, the hole in Phillip's chest is widening, once more, proclaiming without words that it is a fixture in his life that has no intention of ever leaving. Or being filled. 

 

.v.

 

Irrational and nonsensical as it is, Phillip is unwilling to stray too far away from Barnum, even after he has mostly familiarized himself with the geographical layout of the expansive home. He fears that wandering off could result in him getting lost and being unable to find his partner, again.

Barnum, in his way, seems to sense this and never comments on it, even to- justifiably, as far as Phillip is concerned- tease Phillip about following him around like a duckling diligently waddling after its mother. After that first day and the panicked manner that Barnum called out for him, Phillip wonders if, perhaps, Barnum shares in this fear. That, he too, worries if one of them journeys too far from the other, they'll be separated, searching and searching through the various rooms and corridors of the colossal estate for each other for hours, days…

_Any_ duration would be too long.

Unbearable.

Caroline and Helen cast the occasional curious look over their shoulders at Phillip while he sits, curled, in an armchair in the main sitting room during their so very, very missed playtime with their father, but they withhold any questions they might have pertaining to his persisting presence.

Phillip thumbs through the pages of one of the few precious items from his childhood that he took with him to his apartment when he was finally able to depart- _escape_ \- from the Carlyle estate: a beautifully illustrated collection of fairytales, including the more obscure fables one rarely hears discussed and recounted in most circles. Half of his focus is lent to following the exploits of Helen's zookeeper, the dear friend of Caroline's ballerina princess, and the proud owner of a magnificent talking horse enthusiastically realized by Barnum. The other half is poured into looking over the lush illustrations accompanying Phillip's favorite tale in the book.

Hans Christian Anderson's _The Little Mermaid_.

Even as a child, the mermaid's self-sacrifice when faced with option to take the life of her beloved in order to restore her tail and fins and return to her family beneath the sea, resonated deeply within Phillip. He thought, often, particularly when sealed in his childhood bedroom, dull throbbing in his wrist after his father slammed a ruler down upon it for the fifth or sixth time, of what it might be like to love and to cherish someone so much, he would willingly throw himself into the ocean to dissolve into foam destined to be tossed endlessly about and forgotten by the sands of time, rather than plunging a blade into that someone's chest to save his own life.

To give his life for theirs, despite them loving another.

To trade a life of comfort surrounded by his family, for a chance at a life with a beautiful man who captured his heart and made him willing to exchange the very thing that made him who he was and signified his noble lineage, for legs that made him feel as though glass were stabbing into and shredding the soles of his feet with every step.

"What's that you're reading?"

Phillip is startled out of his reverie by the sudden appearance of wide eyes attached to a head of long blond hair, peering curiously over the pages of his book. A slight smile curling the ends of his lips, he answers Helen's query, "An old book from my childhood. One that is very dear to me."

"Can I see?" Without waiting for a response, Helen scrambles into his lap.

"Helen," Barnum chides her gently from across the room.

The youngest Barnum pays her father no mind. She shifts closer to Phillip, taking the book in surprisingly gentle hands, and flips through the pages, intrigue gleaming in her eyes as the takes in all of the illustrations. Upon landing on the page that depicts the mermaid's sacrifice, she calls out, "Daddy, come look!"

Phillip feels heat filling his cheeks as Barnum crosses to them, long strides carrying him to Phillip's chair in what seems like a fraction of an instant. Warmth exudes from him as he stands behind Phillip, leaning over the back of the chair.

" _The Little Mermaid_ ," Barnum says softly. Hearing the title of a story so close to his heart read off in the tantalizing low rumble of Barnum's baritone, twists something in Phillip's stomach, brings to mind shivers of arousal coiling in his abdomen and hot breaths ghosting over his neck as the ringmaster whispers into his skin and litters the expanse of his chest in marks. Pink bruises that proclaim Barnum's ownership of him every time Phillip catches sight of them. "That's a rather sad story, isn't it?"

He might as well have murmured the words into Phillip's hair, they are, unmistakably, addressed solely to Phillip.

Swallowing, Phillip spares Helen a brief glance before reeling an answer from his throat. "Perhaps it is."

A thought, an insidious, treacly, inexorable one that originates in his very core and seeps through the rest of him, swamping his insides in the most profound of sinking, palpitating melancholia, settles in the cavity of Phillip's chest, threatening to shove out the tentative joy that Barnum created a home in Phillip's heart for: _And, perhaps my life is one, as well._

 

.v.

 

Neither Barnum nor Phillip can stop Helen from running to Lettie the moment the pair of men accompanied by the Barnum girls set foot in the main tent. Caroline is right behind her sister, and Lettie wraps both girls in a warm embrace, her distinct jovial laughter echoing off the rafters.

"Baby girls!" She exclaims. "Your little sunshine faces have been greatly missed around here."

Both girls beam, as if wanting to affirm the accuracy of Lettie's claim.

"Daddy," Caroline says, turning back to Barnum, "I like the tent a lot more than the building."

"Do you?" Barnum can't contain his grin, and Phillip wishes he could find a way to keep that brilliant smile lighting up his partner's face for all of time.

"It's a lot more alive," Caroline states, punctuating her review of the new setup with a smile complete with sparkling eyes that confirms, definitively, that she is, indeed, her father's daughter.

As the girls scamper off to pile Constantine with questions regarding the meanings of his various tattoos, Phillip's attention is yanked away from Barnum by Lettie calling out, "Phillip Carlyle! Just the man I wanted to see."

Phillip glances to Barnum, who offers him a mere shrug, brows creasing and expression just as puzzled as Phillip, himself.

"I'm borrowing him," Lettie tells the ringmaster.

Barnum's eyes sweep over Phillip, conflict flickering at the backs of them.

Phillip opens his mouth to protest- he and Barnum haven't strayed from one another's side for more than minutes at a time since the fire. They seem unable to function, focus, _think_ without each other- but Barnum's slow nod and his murmur of, "Don't keep him long", silences the protest before it passes Phillip's uvula.

A soft, understanding smile on her face, Lettie pats the back of Phillip's arm and steers him away from Barnum, Phillip aware of hazel eyes trained on his backside with every step they take.

"I've… been looking into writing some of my own songs for our shows," Lettie admits, sheepishly, when they've reached the changing area.

Phillip's eyebrows elevate. He feels a small smile tugging at his mouth. "That's great news!"

A brilliant grin stretches across Lettie's face. "Goodness, do you really think so?"

"Of course I do. Your voice is one of our finest assets."

Cheeks going pink above the dark, bristly hairs of her beard, Lettie queries, "You haven't been taking lessons in flattery from Barnum, by any chance?"

Phillip expels a breath of laughter, and the corners of his mouth quirk into a smirk. "I have no need for silver-tongued aggrandizements. I'm quite content leaving that aspect of show business to the showman, himself."

"I think all of us know there's no way we can out-con that man," Lettie agrees, her voice carrying an undercurrent of affection.

Barnum, did, of course, coax _all_ of them to leave their former lives behind with honeyed words and grandiose promises; a sale's pitch most befitting of a man who believes that even bad publicity is still worth attaining. He may as well have offered every member of his company the world.

And… in a roundabout way, managed to gift it to them, in spite of it all.

Phillip's light chuckle tapers off, his demeanor sobering. "I'm not sure how I can be of any service to you, though."

"Oh, dear. Honey." Lettie offers Phillip a smile that stretches across her face and shines from her eyes. "You were a big-shot playwright. There is no better person I could go to for help with my lyrics!"

Phillip blinks, not quite believing that he's heard the bearded woman correctly. "You're enlisting _my_ help with… ?"

"Song lyrics, yes. Come on, Carlyle, pull your head out of the clouds Barnum has it hovering in, for just a few minutes."

The quip is enough to bring Phillip right up to speed. "I'm certain you're mistaken," he pushes out, stumbling over the words. "Phineas and I are--"

His haste results in a slip of the tongue. A _damning_ one.

Phillip addresses Barnum as _P.T._ when they're in public. Barnum's proper first name is too intimate, reserved for private moments sealed safely away in the Barnum home; a world all its own.

Lettie's grin stretches even wider, silent, knowing laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Whatever you say, Carlyle."

Heat spreads like wildfire over Phillip's face, even as his blood ices. He flinches instinctively, bracing himself to be rejected, cast out, carted off in the back of a police carriage to spend the remainder of his days in a cell, having his brain picked at in the hopes of isolating the source of his _disease_ , watching the same happen to _Barnum_ , all because he was too foolish and inept to mind his damn tongue.

But, Lettie, like Barnum, like Anne, never brings Phillip's fears and anxieties to fruition. She simply lays a hand on his arm, her touch warm, thumb rubbing just noticeable soothing circles into the crook of his elbow, and says, her voice and cadence gentle, "Honey, this is a place for people like us. People who are different, who have been told that they don't belong in the world outside. No one here would ever cause harm to come to you, or to Barnum, that crazy humbug of a man, because the two of you love each other in a way the people out there decided, by no grace of any God I can think of, is wrong."

Looking into her eyes, Phillip berates himself for entertaining even a split-second of fear that this woman would throw him to the wolves. That any of the oddities would cast him or Barnum out- subject them to the same cruelty they all endured, and still do, if some especially rowdy and malicious protestors have their way. He is too overcome to speak, familiar tears stinging his eyes, making them water, so he offers Lettie a smile, hoping that it expresses what he verbally cannot.

She returns it amply. Her broad form offers warmth and security in ways that Phillip's mother hasn't since Phillip was a small child first learning the true extent of his father's wrath. At some point, Mrs. Carlyle chose to withdraw that warmth and security that is, supposedly, a core, ingrained tenet of motherhood. 

The soft hands drawing over Phillip's back when he cried, and the gentle fingers combing through and styling his hair for him, soon disappeared altogether.

And, at some point, Phillip resolved that this was a result of him being undeserving of the affection- the _love_ \- so many other mothers happily offered their children.

"So, what do you say, Carlyle?" Lettie asks, the gentle, melodic lilt of her voice almost as soothing as a caress down Phillip's back. "Can I count on you to be my wordsmith?"

"Please." Phillip takes Lettie's hand into his own and gives it a light squeeze. Of gratitude. Of appreciation. Of affection that people outside of the family he was born into, taught him how to articulate.  "The honor and privilege would be all mine."

 

.v.

 

Barnum asks, when Phillip rejoins him in their new office for a lunch of coffee and sandwiches, "What was it Lettie wanted?"

O'Malley and the Barnum girls are in the far corner of the room, O'Malley entertaining the sisters with one of his infamous sleights of hand.

Phillip brings his coffee cup to his lips and hums noncommittally into it. The coffee within is black, but carries just enough of a hint of cream and sugar for Phillip to know that it has been tampered with, and exactly who was responsible for said tampering. "I don't recall her granting me permission to tell you," is the only response he gives the perpetrator.

"Ah, it's a surprise, then." Barnum settles back into his chair with a grin, hazel eyes gleaming with the spirit and vigor of a much younger man. "Well, if there's anyone I can trust to work surprises into our show, it would be you. My vastly under-compensated partner."

Phillip does not need a mirror to know that his cheeks have taken on a distinctly rosy hue. Having his role in the show be recognized means the world to him, whisks the air right out of his lungs. But, it's praise that feels undeserved. He is no more than a cog in the machine, a gear whose only purpose is to turn, just so, allowing things to run with as much polished finesse as achievable so Barnum may shine brighter than the stars.

It is of no pertinence that some part of Phillip has begun to desire more… A place beside Barnum under the spotlights, his own gold and crimson coat flashing and whirling behind him as they stand together, the proud figureheads and patriarchs of their family. _Partners_.

No. That is of no consequence at all.

 

.v.

 

Caroline and Helen, energized after that evening's show, put up quite a bit of a fight about going to bed. They insist on "just _one_ more story, _please_ ", every time Barnum makes a move to turn the oil lamps down, and Barnum is unable to deny them. He has read the girls "one more story" four times, and is rising to his feet when Helen calls softly, "Phillip, will you read us another one?"

Two pairs of wide, pleading eyes fix on Phillip, and he surrenders as easily as their father, conceding to himself that this family has completely destroyed his hopes of ever again projecting an air of cool, unaffected indifference.

Barnum sighs, visibly worn out, but much more obviously happy to the very depths of his being to have his daughters with him, once more. He offers Phillip a playfully disapproving shake of the head partnered with an affectionate smile, his hands resting on his hips. "I expected more resistance from you, Phillip."

"Well, far be it for a _gentleman_ to refuse a lady a last bedtime story," Phillip counters, settling neatly into a chair between the girls' beds and selecting a book off of the nightstand.

Barnum clucks his tongue, his smile only widening. "And they say _I'm_ a terrible influence."

"They would be correct," Phillip returns easily. Caroline and Helen giggle at the fond, lighthearted teasing, and Phillip smiles, wishing in the most secret part of him that he wasn't enjoying this sense of domesticity, wasn't so content and _happy_ in this house, with this family that he still isn't a part of no matter how much he longs to be.

When Phillip finishes a reading of _Snow White and Rose Red_ , Helen's eyes are fluttering closed, and Caroline's are sleepy and half-lidded. Phillip gathers himself up from the chair, mindful to be quiet as possible so as not to jar the girls from the brink of sleep, and bids them, "Sleep well. Dream of pleasant things for your daddy."

Soft smiles meet him, in response.

"Night, Phillip," Helen murmurs.

Dipping his head, Phillip pivots on his heel and heads for the door. He hears the shuffling of Barnum's movement behind him, the gentle creak of bedsprings as Barnum lowers himself, pausing briefly at both beds. Phillip waits until he has crossed the threshold and is standing in the shadows of the dimly lit hallway outside to turn and regard his partner from the peripheral of his vision.

He watches as Barnum smoothes out the blankets draped over both girls, tucking them securely around their tiny bodies, and presses light kisses to both of their foreheads. As Barnum rights himself and makes his own way toward the door, Phillip tries not to give himself away by flinching and signaling that he's doing something so ghastly as eavesdropping.

"Daddy," Caroline's voice says, barely more than a soft inhalation carried on a light breeze, halting Barnum where he stands.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"You don't really love your show more than mommy, do you?"

Phillip's stomach wrenches at the accusation. There is certainly no way such an idea could have germinated in the mind of a child without someone else- an _adult_ \- planting it there. But, surely Charity Barnum doesn't legitimately believe that Barnum… He dedicated twenty-five years of his life to her; almost the entirety of Phillip's lifespan devoted to a relationship, to a single-minded focus on giving Charity the ideal life Barnum envisioned for the two of them. For _her_.

He gnaws at the interior of his lower lip, the metallic tang of blood washing over his taste buds.

There is a long pause, and Phillip believes he can hear something in Barnum cracking, like a gear in a music box grinding to a slow, anguishing halt, ceasing the graceful spin of the figure on top and distorting the tinkling notes of the music.

"Of course not, sweetheart," Barnum finally manages, the gruffness of his voice betraying just how much the question has rattled him. "Get to sleep. Dream of lovely things for our Phillip, and for your mommy."

A lump tightens in Phillip's throat. The muscles around it flexing painfully, Phillip backs away from the door to allow Barnum to exit as he blows out the last source of illumination in the room.

"Well…" Barnum muses, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. "That was an endeavor. Makes you quite eager to have your own, eh?"

Phillip almost smiles. Almost ignores the transparency of the glossy veneer that Barnum has painted over himself, and the equal transparency of his own fracturing and crumbling facade.

 

.v.

 

Even as he changes into his sleep clothes and joins Barnum in the bed the older man is still choosing to share with Phillip, despite the company only a few doors down, Phillip cannot shake off or suppress the anxious twisting and the gnawing canyon of emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

He knows that Barnum's heart belongs to Charity. It always will. He has been a planet orbiting her sun for twenty-five years. It's inevitable that they will repair the tattered and frayed bonds of their union and their family will be whole, once more.

But, what, then, becomes of Phillip? What is his place in all of this?

And, what if Barnum and Charity never reconcile, if the dissonance in their values is too great and the divide between them too vast to cross? Phillip being here, sharing a living space with Barnum, amenities, clothing, meals, a _bed_ … must be exacerbating the issue.

_Phillip_ , _himself_ , is exacerbating the issue.

The gratitude that Phillip once felt for Barnum cutting him down from the rope he meant to hang by, lifting his body from the flaming rubble of their former home, rescuing, _revitalizing_ him, and flooding his being with warmth and fondness until every nerve and bone and tissue sang with it, has dissipated, vanishing into the hollow space inside of Phillip. And, regret manifests to usurp its place.

If the fire had taken him, if he had been successful, perhaps Barnum and his silver-tongue and promises spellbinding in their grandness might have won Charity's affections, once more, and she would never again have to wonder if her husband's loyalties and devotions lay elsewhere. 

Waking to a pitch black room, a firm, warm body curled into his, the weight of an arm draped across his side, and Barnum's light, peaceful snores breezing into his ears, is not enough to eliminate these thoughts, and Phillip _knows_ with all the certainty that he knows the sun will rise and the seasons will change, that he truly is _defective_.

 

.v.

 

A hand jostling his shoulder pulls Phillip to an uninvited and very much _unappreciated_ state of wakefulness. "Go away," he groans.

"Phillip. It's ten-thirty."

"Fantastic. Wake me at one."

There's an amused chuckle, then the deep timbre of Barnum's voice speaking quietly against his ear, "I'm certain you don't want me to send the girls in to wake you. They're not inclined to take no for an answer."

As if Barnum, himself, is so inclined.

Realizing the futility of his attempt to stay in bed just a little longer- to lie here and rot- Phillip opens his eyes, sits upright sluggishly, and runs a hand through his hair.

The expression that greets him is twinkling with amusement, naturally, but there is a trace of sympathy underneath that amusement that would have gone unnoticed, entirely, were it not for the faint lines forming above Barnum's brow. "I drew a bath for you. You'll feel much more alert, and like a _person_ , after you've freshened up."

Phillip can't say no to that, especially after Barnum went to the trouble of drawing a bath for him. "Thank you," he murmurs.

Barnum merely smiles. "I'll be just outside the door if you need anything."

_I need_ ** _you_** , Phillip thinks. _I need you to tell me that I'm wanted and needed. That I'm not some cumbersome thing impeding your life and separating you from your family. That I truly make you happy._

And: _I need to die. I don't belong here. I've never belonged anywhere. I was a complete and utter_ ** _fool_** _, trying to make a home for myself in a life that was never meant to be mine._

Steady hands on his shoulders help him to his feet, and as he is escorted to the restroom, he sharply admonishes himself for wishing that he was being carried in Barnum's powerful arms and held tight to his strong chest, ears so close to the heart beating within that he can almost feel his own pulse answering, every pump of blood in-synch.

 

.v.

 

After a rich breakfast of porridge and various fruits- grapes, strawberries, melons, plums- Caroline and Helen beg Barnum to take them to the beach.

Phillip's stomach feels undeservedly full. Barnum's level stare was quite effective at coercing him to eat every last bite of porridge in his bowl, one strawberry, a few grapes, and half of a plum. Barnum finished off the other half, which the girls found to be a mixture of amusing and gross.

Phillip is tempted to decline participation in the outing, when Helen wraps her arms around his waist and pleads for him to go with them.

He knows there is no point in looking to Barnum for assistance. The damn man is already putting on his overcoat as a giddily victorious Caroline and Helen run to grab their shoes.

"Fresh air will do you good," Barnum says as both an explanation, and an excuse. A grin is tugging at his lips as he takes Phillip's coat and pitches it to him.

Phillip fumbles before catching the garment and shooting his partner a look of resignation. "Honestly, P.T., you're no better than a child."

Barnum's grin widens, taking on a shade of mischief. "A wise man once said, 'Grow up, but never grow old'."

Phillip raises an eyebrow, suspecting that the 'wise man' responsible for this supposed proverb is standing in front of him. But, he slips on his coat, and allows Barnum to wind his scarf around his neck.

The bite in the morning air is immediate and penetrating, causing Phillip to cross his arms over his chest, shivering against the nipping wind.

Caroline and Helen seem unfazed by the cold, however, rushing toward the shoreline and calling amidst excited giggles for Barnum and Phillip to 'keep up'.

Barnum nudges Phillip's shoulder, and extends his arm in a sweeping gesture in front of them. "After you."

Forcing his lethargy and cold-stiffened legs to move, Phillip treads forward. When the frost-covered soil gives way to the white sand of the beach, granules find their way into his shoes. It's unpleasant and rather annoying. But… a tiny part of Phillip, buried deep under a mountain of shame and lessons dispensed by leveling glares and words spat snidely at him whilst he was still a child prime for conditioning, secretly savors the feeling.

He was never allowed to visit the beach. His parents dubbed such a trip "frivolous", "nonsensical", and "beneath" them.

"Beaches are very dirty, dear," Mrs. Carlyle had said, rifling through her collection of jeweled necklaces and trying several on before her vanity mirror. "We don't need to seek entertainment in such places. Everything we'll ever need is right here, in the city."

"A Carlyle, soiling his fine clothes in sand that has seen Lord only knows how many filthy creatures crawling through it, and ruining his expensive breeches by wading into squalid, vermin-filled water." Mr. Carlyle's lips had curled into a sneer over his copy of the day's paper. "It's unthinkable."

And, that had been that. Any fleeting dreams Phillip ever had of curling his toes into the sand, or simply floating, tranquil and detached from the rest of the world, in the low tide, were promptly cast aside, and the matter was never discussed, again.

The Barnums hold absolutely no such reservations or "standards". Caroline and Helen peer into the water, delighting in the sun glinting off of the steely blue waves, and latch onto their father's hands, pointing to the birds soaring and swooping overhead and asking for them to be identified.

"Those are seagulls, Caroline," Barnum says. "Did you know they can navigate through even the worst storms at sea?"

"They can?" Caroline exclaims, her voice full of wonder.

Phillip misses the response, Barnum's words lost to him as another gust rushes past his ears, but the smile on the man's face inspires the smallest sliver of one to pull at Phillip's own lips.

Helen pulls at Caroline's hand, squealing excitedly, and tugs her down the shoreline, determined to share the amazing discovery of "a tiny crab! In a shell!", with her elder sister.

"Girls," Barnum calls after them, "don't go too far. And, stay out of the water!"

Laughter is the only reply his daughters give him.

Emitting his own quiet, undeniably content laughter, Barnum follows the two petite, retreating forms with his eyes, until pastel pink coats are no more than pastel pink dots against the spectrum of whites and grays around them.

Phillip gazes out, over the sea, tracking the path of one particular seagull, and shivers, again, as a frigid wind rolls in, bringing the ocean's briny scent to his nose. He feels out of place, distinctly, the weight of the feeling heavy on his stomach as the food he didn't deserve to indulge in.

"I assume you've never been."

Turning his head, Phillip finds Barnum at his side, and puzzles over how such a strikingly tall man is able to maneuver with such stealth. He didn't even hear his partner's approach. "You assume correctly," he murmurs, running his fingers over the wool of his overcoat where it stretches tight over the swell of his biceps. Despite the muscle he has built, and the toning of that muscle he has achieved as an adult, he will always feel small. Dwarfed and diminished by his parents, his place- and lack of one, his mind that constantly holds a knife to his back, twisting it into his spine to cripple him, on his worst days. "My parents never deigned to spending a day at the beach. It was…" His jaw twitches and he swallows, plastering on a wry smile. "Unthinkable."

"This summer, we'll have to fix that, then, won't we?"

Summer; the season that has eluded Phillip as long as he can remember.

_This_ summer; as though he might actually live long enough to see winter's thaw and the emergence of new life. To witness, to _feel_ the heat of sunlight melting away every icy sliver and stalactite as the season of unrelenting cold and shades of grey comes to an end.

Sidling in front of Phillip, Barnum adjusts Phillip's scarf, wrapping it snugly around his neck with such care and affection, Phillip feels his heart shatter into shards of glass that disintegrate, swirling among his ribs as chaotic maelstroms of sea foam.

 

.v.

 

It wasn't unexpected for the girls to kick up a fuss about having to leave when Mrs. Hallett arrives to take them back to their grandparents- and their mother. But, seeing a teary-eyed Caroline and Helen clinging to Barnum, and the sadness darkening Barnum's gaze and clenching his jaw, makes Phillip wish he had the authority to send Mrs. Hallett away. To give Barnum and his daughters just a few more hours, one more day, a week, together.

"We don't want to leave you again," Caroline whimpers, pushing her face into Barnum's waistcoat.

"It's only for a little while," Barnum assures her, the low pitch of his voice an attempt to disguise its quavers of uncertainty. "I'll see both of you, again, soon. I promise."

"Grandpa doesn't want you coming to see us." Helen stares up at her father with wide eyes. Her lower lip trembles as she twines her fingers into the fabric of the pockets stitched into the waistcoat, her face red and splotchy from crying. "I don't think he likes you very much."

Phillip's gut clenches with a hot flood of anger, and he resolves that he definitely, definitively, has no positive feelings toward Mr. Hallett, and nothing kind to say, or think, about the man. If he had to describe his sentiments for Barnum's father in-law, _enmity_ is what springs to mind. "You should know that your father would never allow a silly little thing like that to keep him away from you," he says, surprising himself with the clarity of his voice and the strength backing the declaration.

Barnum's eyes glimmer as though Phillip has casted him a lifeline. "That's right." He kneels down to look his daughters in the eye, taking one of each of their hands into his own, and holding their gazes steadily. "Thousands of miles and entire oceans couldn't stand in my way."

Phillip, forced by two _very_ determined little girls who, as their father said, aren't at all inclined to take no for an answer, to come visit, too, so he "won't hurt himself, again", stands, alone, stunned and off-kilter, in the middle of the room. He watches Barnum take his daughters into a last tight hug, and linger by the open doors to see them off.

A sinking feeling drags Phillip's heart into the pit of his stomach as he sees the light in Barnum's eyes begin to dim in time with the setting sun.

 

.v.

 

They sit in the study in silence, Phillip knowing that nothing he can say will ease the pain of Barnum watching his children be taken away from him a second time, and Barnum having retreated into the labyrinth of his mind.

Barnum is slouched in his massive armchair, dark eyes glassy and unfocused, and arms limp on the armrests.

Phillip is in a smaller chair beside him. Having finished drawing up the program for the show scheduled for the following evening, he flicks through the pages of a book that he soon recognizes as the tome on Astronomy that he stumbled onto, his first day in the house. He discovers more captions and notes scrawled in the margins by Barnum's swift-moving hand. More smatterings of German, with the occasional term in a language that appears to be not quite Spanish, but something similar. The words, _sehnsucht_ and _traumtänzer_ are a faithfully recurring companion as Phillip skims over passages about stars guiding lost sailors, and the rings encircling far off planets and what substances these rings could be made from. Gas, stardust, states of matter, perhaps, that have yet to be discovered.

He is engrossed in a section chronicling the findings of the Italian astronomer, Galileo Galilei, mentally caching a reminder to research these words that clearly mean so much to Barnum, and startles at the clearing of a throat. "Phin?"

Barnum has Phillip's collection of fairytales in hand, his hold light, lenient, as he grasps a page between his thumb and forefinger. "Libraries were a refuge for me, you know."

Phillip cocks his head, eyebrows raised with intrigue. It isn't often that Barnum divulges details about his past, especially so out of the blue. The ringmaster harbors more than a bit of shame for the years he spent on the streets, fighting for each meager scrap of food and enduring many a sleepless night, a boot to the back, objects hurled at him by children taught to mock and make life a living hell for the less fortunate.

The exact sort of children who grow up to become hate-filled protestors and small-minded parents who demonize and discipline their children for straying too far outside of the lines established long before these children came into the world.

"A boy with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back…" Barnum goes on, and Phillip hangs on to his every word. "Having a shelter, no matter how brief, from the worst of nature's elements, an oasis of knowledge, entire worlds right at my fingertips…"

"'What would a man be without his literature'?" Phillip echoes.

"Yes," Barnum murmurs. His eyes are clouding, his mind receding further into its own dark rooms and winding corridors. He flips the page in Phillip's book of fairytales, and a strained smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Hans Christian Anderson... _The Little Match Girl_ , as I recall, was quite painful for me to read, during those days."

A story of a girl struggling to sell her sole source of income, and warmth, to apathetic passersby, instructed to come home with a handsome payment for all of her troubles or not come home at all, and ultimately succumbing to the cold and contenting herself with hallucinations of an ideal life as the light of her final match went out.

For an unsettlingly long stretch, all that Phillip can do is regard his partner in a stunned silence, aware of his heart aching like it has been pierced and is now bleeding profusely.

He reflects on the sensation of walking on broken glass that the mermaid in his cherished tale from the same author, had to endure, and tells himself that he would trudge, barefoot, over miles of it, shredding the skin of his heels and the tender balls of his feet to ribbons, to free Barnum, his partner, the man he _loves_ , of the bonds of his past, and make him happy enough to erase the pain of his childhood. Forever would be ideal, but he'd settle for "a while".

Even a while of relieving Barnum of the burdens he bears.

"Your story,"  Phillip says, at last, only the slightest of tremors to his voice, "is much closer to that of _The Ugly Duckling_ , I think. A severely underestimated little bird, out of place in the pond where he was raised, wandering off and realizing that the ridicule he faced, while leaving indelible marks, could not change him or keep him from evolving into the beautiful swan he is, and was always meant to be."

A beat of silence is sustained as Barnum lifts his eyes to meet Phillip's, and his cognizance edges out from the winding catacombs of the oubliette it was cast into. "Come here," he finally says, no more than a whisper, his voice rough.

Phillip closes the tome and leaves it, with great care and regard, on the chair behind him, observing as Barnum places his book back on the table he took it from with the same amount of care. When Phillip stands before his partner, Barnum rises to his feet and sweeps him into a firm embrace, his lips pressing hotly, almost desperately to Phillip's.

A low moan wells in Phillip's throat, and Barnum growls, immediately, in response. Licking at Phillip's lips, Barnum breaks the kiss to litter more kisses and light nips along Phillip's jaw and down his neck.

"I've missed you," he breathes, his mouth hot on Phillip's skin.

"What do you mean?" Phillip says, aware of his breath rate speeding up and heart beginning to pound as he clings to the last tendrils of rapidly departing sense. He tries to laugh, and the sound perishes at the back of his throat, the sinking feeling in his chest intensifying and a gasp drawn out of him as Barnum noses into his neck and breathes in, deeply. "I've been right here."

Instead of answering, Barnum nuzzles Phillip's pulse point and continues his ministrations past the collar of Phillip's shirt, pushing the cotton fabric aside to give himself better access to Phillip's throat and collarbone. He laps at the dip in Phillip's clavicle, and the resulting shiver makes Phillip's knees weak.

"Ph-Phineas," Phillip gasps breathlessly.

A soft growl and the press of teeth against his Adam's apple is the only reply.

Arms tightening the embrace, Barnum steps back and brings Phillip sinking into his chair with him. "Darling, you smell so good," he whispers, kissing harder, sucking at the skin, now.

Phillip can't stop himself from releasing a few low whines, feeling a minor twinge in his trousers.

"You're here," Barnum continues. "Stay right here, Phillip. Just stay here, with me."

Phillip loathes himself more, in this moment, than he ever has. He can't promise Barnum this. Not when there is a cold, lifeless vacuum where his heart should be. _Where it was_. Not when the water in the well has risen past his head. Not when the man's family is falling apart and Phillip is certain that he, the disgrace, the scandal, the broken, diseased, defective error in the gene pool, is to blame.

All he can do is kiss Barnum's hairline, nose at the soft curls resting on Barnum's forehead, and push his face into Barnum's chest, listening to the tempo of his heartbeat and doing his best to prevent the tears in his eyes spilling over and soaking Barnum's shirt.

 

.v.

 

The rhythmic scuffing of feet and squeaking of the floor has Phillip blinking awake, his body stiff and a dizziness swirling about his head, his stomach pulled tight with an overwhelming feeling that something is off.

Something is _wrong_.

This isn't their bed. And, it is not their- his- room. Which, isn't _really_ his room. And, Barnum…

His eyes locate the man, and it brings him only minor relief to discover him pacing back and forth in the study, hands clasped behind his back and rows of creases corrugating his forehead.

Barnum startles as he realizes that he has an audience. "Phillip. It's still early. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

_No. Not without you,_ Phillip's mind answers.

Phillip's mouth replies, "I'm fine. It's okay."

Barnum eyes him, seemingly unconvinced, but he offers no argument beyond a heavy sigh. "I'll make you breakfast," he decides.

You. Not "us".

Phillip hinges on this choice of phrasing, and submerges further. "Okay," he says, numbly.

"Any requests?"

It takes a moment for the question to register. Phillip's automatic response is a _"no"_ , followed by, " _I'm not hungry, thank you"_. For some silly, stupid, pitiful reason, his mouth is not on the same page as his head. "That tea you made for me… The one that had flavorings of raspberry and honey."

"You would like that?"

"Yes. I would. Please."

It's tea. Paltry. Insignificant. _Nothing_. But, the soft glow, gold as honey, bright as sunlight, in Barnum's eyes, is _everything_.

 

.v.

 

"I'm going to speak with Charity, then stop by the market to pick up a few things," Barnum informs him, rather clumsily placing the used dishes, some still unwashed from the night before, in the sink. "I'll--" He pauses and stares, breaking out of his distracted daze and searching, his concern unmistakable, at Phillip. Looking him over and peering into him. His Adam's apple dips as he swallows, and a muscle quavers, just discernibly, in his jaw. "I'll only be gone a short while."

Phillip wants to- _wishes he could_ \- buy into this assurance. Believe it wholeheartedly. But, the longer the silence between Barnum and Charity lasts, the more likely it is that they will never sort out their differences and reconcile their marriage. It could be that Charity even wishes to dissolve the marriage, altogether.

And, _Phillip_ is to blame.

Barnum rushes about to slip on his shoes and tug on his overcoat, not bothering, in his hurry, to change out of his clothes from the previous day. He stalls in front of Phillip and bends to leave a lingering kiss on his lips, murmuring, his baritone soothing, "It will be an hour, at most. I swear on it."

At the doorway, he gives Phillip a smile and a tip of his hat, a soft blue one that he has commented reminds him of Phillip's eyes- _though not nearly so brilliant_. But, the look in Barnum's eyes, one that follows him out the front doors, betrays his uncertainty, his concern, his anxiety, revealing that the casual, chipper display was just that.

An _act_.

The doors shut behind Barnum, the muted thud of the wood and clicking of the locks proclaiming his departure more baldly than stage directions.

Phillip breathes in, and _hates_ how loud the inhalation is in the too quiet house. Barnum easily fills a room with his larger than life presence and personality to match. Without him, the spacious home feels empty. _Lifeless_.

Exhaling, slowly. shakily, Phillip picks out a book from the small pile that Caroline and Helen amassed on a table in the front room, during their visit, and slumps onto the sofa in the adjacent sitting room. He wants to be near the doors, able to meet Barnum the _moment_ he returns.

Three paragraphs in, he feels an urge to check his pocket watch, and rebukes himself. This is ridiculous. _Pathetic_. He's a grown man, not a child waiting impatiently for their father to return home.

Yet, when he closes his eyes, he sees ravaging flames and hears Barnum's voice calling desperately to him, their roles reversed so _Phillip_ is the one stumbling through the blaze searching for his injured partner, failing to find him, screaming for him until his throat is raw and a beam smashes into his skull, his vision going black.

He forces his eyes to stay riveted on the text, willing himself to achieve immersion in the story, one telling of a girl and a blue bull. He finishes the tale swiftly enough, and is mostly successful in keeping his irrational panic at bay, Barnum's frantic calls of his name out of mind. Then, the number of tales finished increases; two, three, four, five.

Admonishing himself as he takes the pocket watch in hand, pops it open, and tilts it up to read the time on its face, he discovers that a half-hour has passed. Barnum must be at the Halletts' by now.

With little warning, Phillip's heart drops right into the bowels of his stomach. He pictures Charity refusing to speak to Barnum, regarding him coldly, accusing him of being unfaithful not just with Jenny Lind, but with _Phillip_ \- his partner. A _man_. He envisions the Halletts recoiling in horror, Mr. Hallett rounding on Barnum, spewing vile names at him, threatening him with violence. Mrs. Hallett rushing to her daughter's side, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, appalled at her son in-law's depravity. They'd want to get the law involved, and--

He can't do this. He _cannot_ bring ruination upon P.T. Barnum.

Insides ice, body leadened, emptiness engulfing him, Phillip rises to his feet.

Barnum locked the knives away. There is no arsenic or deadly nightshade lying about. No absinthe stashed in some secret compartment in the walls. The next best thing is the cognac in the pantry.

It occurs to Phillip when his vision is swimming, his thoughts jumbled and incoherent, and the bottle is half-empty, that he probably shouldn't be doing this. That he hasn't checked the time, and Barnum would be upset to find him like this, should he return. _If_ he returns.

Then, he snorts derisively, self-loathing devouring him in whole, and tosses back another burning, bitter mouthful with hands that can barely hold the bottle to his lips, musing that Phineas Taylor Barnum would be better off if he had never met Phillip Carlyle.

 

.v.

 

He comes to with a blindingly intense migraine pounding at the front of his skull, and an urge to upheave the contents of his stomach.

"Drink this," he hears Barnum's voice commanding him, and he squints through the searing wall of pain to find the man sitting at the foot of the bed they've been sharing.

Their bed, but _not_ "their" bed. Barnum is married. Charity is his wife, and this is _their_ home, and Phillip is nothing more than an intruder who has long outstayed his welcome.

"Phillip, you need to drink this," Barnum repeats, softly, but with as much authority as before.

Blinking, his eyes still bleary, Phillip reaches for the glass being offered to him and struggles to take it into his shaking God damn hands.

Letting out something like a sigh, Barnum maneuvers closer and brings the glass to Phillip's mouth. Phillip takes a sip- at least his mouth still works some semblance of properly- and is grateful for the sensation of cold water washing down his throat.

"You raided the liquor supply and passed out on the floor in the front room," Barnum says. From the tone of his voice, he holds himself accountable. His intent stare has shame and guilt wrenching Phillip's stomach.

"That was no fault of yours," Phillip murmurs, rasping from the burn of the cognac.

"I shouldn't have left you alone," Barnum mutters, as much to himself as to Phillip. "God, when will I learn to…?"

"Phineas, _stop_." Phillip's vision clears enough for him to focus on Barnum. Pain races across the front of his skull, and he feels his old, scarred over wound from the fire throbbing faintly. "You didn't pour the liquor down my throat."

Barnum's self-deprecation and submersion in guilt and self-blame ceases, his mouth open slightly, more creases lining his forehead.

Phillip might as well have carved them into Barnum's skin, himself. "Charity…" He begins, the question like gravel in his airway, stomach tight with dread at the answer. "How did she--"

"That matter is of no concern, at the moment." Barnum presses the glass to Phillip's lips, once more, and Phillip refuses to cause him any more trouble, so he takes another drink. When the glass has been emptied, Barnum sets it aside and smoothes the blankets over Phillip. "Rest up. We have a show, this evening."

This fact managed to slip Phillip's mind entirely. He's supposed to be the rational one, the organized and sensible partner who keeps Barnum and his wild ideas in check. But, it's no surprise that he's failing at that.

His life is no more than a string of failures. Disgrace after disgrace.

The hammering in his skull persuades Phillip to recline back, head resting on the pillows. "All of the acts have been scheduled?" He inquires, trudging valiantly through the fog in his brain to reach the clarity on the other side.

"Of course. You took care of that last night."

Did he? Phillip cannot recall. It doesn't seem that he has ever been useful.

As soothing as the water was on his parched throat, it has the exact opposite effect on his stomach, upsetting it, a new tide of nausea brought in on its currents as it settles, sloshing, inside of him. Groaning quietly, petulantly, pitifully, he closes his eyes. He thinks he hears the faintest of chuckles from Barnum, though there is absolutely nothing amusing about this situation from where Phillip is lying, but with a brush of lips to his hairline, the chuckle fades into a sad, weary sigh, and the well of misery begins filling up, once more.

 

.v.

 

There is an expulsion of breath, more from Phillip than the body he's collided with. Dimly, he recognizes dark brunet curls, a whiff of jasmine, and hauls himself out of his fugue state. "God, Anne. I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

"Are _you_ all right?" Anne returns. One brow arched, she eyes Phillip, and the corner of her mouth twitches into a frown. "You're prone to slipping into dazes that require someone having to call your name at least twice to get an answer from you. But, this…?" Her scrutinizing stare softens. "Something is wrong, Phillip."

It is. It most certainly, irrefutably is. And, it's something inside of Phillip; something twisted, malformed, bent so far out of shape, restoring it would be impossible.

Phillip is so tempted to confide in Anne, to let his gnawing, wrenching, suffocating misery come pouring out of him as he holds her hand and buries his face in her soft, sweet-smelling hair. To seek comfort against her delicate, but sturdy, so sturdy one might believe her to be unbreakable, shoulders. For just a few, fleeting seconds, his mouth opens, and he is so tempted that it _hurts_ to slam a divisive wall between himself and Anne and any salvation to be found with her. It _hurts_ to isolate himself in the well and allow the water pressure to continue rising.

The hurt lasts only briefly- a rash abated by application of ointment intended not to treat the symptoms, but attenuate them. Phillip is numb, once more. "I'll be fine," he assures Anne. Shouts and kicking, pounding _screams_ of, _Liar Fraud. Pathetic. Wretch_ , reverberate through the hollowed cavity of his chest. "Please, don't let me distract you."

There's that concern- knitting Anne's brows, flooding her soft brown eyes. "Phillip--" she starts.

"Soar beautifully, tonight," Phillip says, brushing her shoulder with his fingertips. He can't meet her eyes. Cannot, though his very bloodstream is laced with sin, lie to her face.

His gaze lowered in _shame, shame, shame_ that would make his father proud, Phillip passes Anne, her sweet, fragrant scent fading out of reach as he leaves her, and the last vestiges of oxygen are squeezed out of his lungs. 

 

.v.

 

_You stumble through your days_

_Got your head hung low_

_Your sky's a shade of grey_

 

_Like a zombie in a maze_

_You're asleep inside_

_But, you can shake awake_

 

Rhythmic snaps join Barnum as his dynamic increases, timed with the lights switching on, and as a spotlight shines down on the ringmaster, the circus comes to life.

Bursts of bright lights and vibrant colors, the swell of music with a pulsing tempo that drives the pace of the show and the beat of the audience's hearts, and the smells- the spice of adrenaline charging the air, the sweetness of hay, the diverse bouquet of exotic colognes and perfumes, and, of course, the ever-present saltiness of peanuts- a rhapsodic overload for the senses.

Barnum's voice is smooth as silk, and Phillip fancies that he can almost feel it caressing his ears.

 

_Go and light your light,_

_Let it burn so bright_

 

_Reachin' up_

_To the sky_

 

_And, it's open wide_

_You're electrified_

 

The elephants pose, the horses canter grandly around the ring. Daggers whiz through the air, Anne and W.D. dazzle and awe with their gravity-defying feats, and the choreography that Barnum leads the dancers through is fine-tuned to perfection.

It's a show to be proud of, and… Phillip has no part in it.

 

_Afraid to step outside,_

_So you lock the door_

_But don't you stay that way_

 

Every movement from the ringmaster is a sight to behold, earning more than a few gasps from the audience. And, as Phillip's breath catches, a nerve inside of him lets out its own silent gasp, setting off sparks of desire that whisper and wind through him, nudging out the emptiness with dulcet, velveteen purrs like the ones Barnum employs with such mastery and panache.

Phillip's skin begins to tingle, stippling, the hairs covering the topmost layer rising with _want_.

 

_Come one, come all_

_You hear the call_

 

As routine, now, as any other part of the show, Barnum's eyes seek out Phillip's, and, for the first time since that night in the bar, Barnum is singing directly _to_ his partner.

 

_To anyone who's searchin' for a way_

_To break free_

 

All at once, Phillip _feels_ , again. All because of Barnum. Always because of Barnum. He aches, and he shivers, and he struggles against the currents overpowering him. Fights to resurface.

Barnum can't slip into the shadows under the stands, return to him, soon enough. The moment he lays a gentle hand on Phillip's cheek, and Phillip feels the callused skin on the pad of Barnum's thumb stroking his cheekbone, he seizes the ringmaster by his sleeves and pulls him into a kiss.

"Phin," he breathes when he breaks off, his smooth parlance reduced to mewling whimpers. " _Phin_."

"What is it?" Barnum asks. His own voice is rough, from use, and from desire, judging by the heat emanating from his skin under his decadent attire. "Talk to me, Phillip. Tell me what you need."

Phillip doesn't _know_ what he needs. Just that he _needs_. Ravenously. Desperately. And, despises himself for it. He clutches at the lapels of Barnum's coat. That alluring, captivating, damningly _piquing_ red and gold coat that has inspired the most sinful of fantasies to swirl through his mind since the first night he served as spectator to one of Barnum's performances in the ostentatious, earth-shifting garment.

To the tails twisting behind Barnum as he struts and cavorts about, waving his cane in grand, sweeping flourishes. To the lights reflecting off of the gold gildings and intricate designs woven into the sleeves. The boldness of the crimson material as it _gleams_ , sensational, staggering, drawing every eye in the room to the wearer. The expert cut and snug, impeccable fit on Barnum's tall, sinuous, formidable and utterly bewitching physique.

"Wear this to bed," Phillip murmurs, regarding the ringmaster under the veil of his eyelashes, his eyes half-lidded and heat trickling from his swelling heart into groin.

Barnum pulls Phillip into him, his hands resting on Phillip's waist, dextrous fingers teasing the skin over Phillip's hipbones through the material of his trousers. "Are you certain?" He asks. His dark eyes peer into Phillip's with every intention of ascertaining the thoughts and intentions behind them.

"Yes," Phillip murmurs, even softer. His insides are pierced on a spike of cold, anesthetized self-loathing, and twist about, tangling in a ropy, pulpy mess of gore.  Despite this, his aimless need only intensifies.

"You're into some very _interesting_ things, Mr. Phillip Carlyle," Barnum remarks, arcing his brows.

More like utterly depraved.

"Yeah. 'Interesting', indeed."

 

.v.

 

They barely make it past the door of the bedroom they've been sharing before Phillip is practically on top of Barnum, kissing him with fervor that feels like it has been escalating to the point of eruption for _years_.

He strains against his trousers, fingers shaking in their eagerness to rid Barnum of his shirt.

"Phillip," Barnum says with a laugh more concerned than mocking, teasing, amused, dismissive. "We don't have the hounds of Hell nipping at our heels. We can take this slowly."

But, they _can't_. Phillip wants- deserves- this rough, fast, uncaring, brutal. He wants- deserves- to _hurt_.

When, they have finally, finally shed every article of clothing aside from Barnum's coat, and they're on the bed, Barnum leaning over him, Phillip breaks his frantic pace, and falters.

His body is marred with scars, skin blackened by bruises, winding welts, scored incisions that glint white against his lightly tanned complexion. The flawless canvas that it once was, if it ever was, has been defaced time and time again. And, coming face to face with this _ugly_ reality- ugly, ugly, he's so revoltingly _ugly_ \- seeing the transformation the skin that he inhabits has undergone, every time he stands before a mirror, a voice inside of him, that same oppressive, seeping, swamping voice that sweetly whispers poison into his ears, assures him that adding to the menagerie of marks that he has _earned_ is precisely what he deserves.

So, he hisses before he can reconsider, " _Bite me_."

Surprise widens Barnum's eyes and the tiniest hint of something- the beginnings of a frown?- pulls at his lips. "Where, Phillip?" He asks quietly. "Where would you like me to bite you?"

_My neck, my chest, stomach, arms, legs, back._ ** _Everywhere_** _._ A low whimper ekes out of Phillip's throat. He needs to _hurt_. He deserves nothing else. "Put your mouth on me, Barnum. _Ruin_ me," he just about growls, _desperately_. " _Please_."

The urgency in Phillip's voice catches Barnum off-guard, makes him hesitate. But, the cessation lasts no more than a few seconds before his mouth is affixed to Phillip's skin. He bites at Phillip's pulse point, the lines of his clavicle, the balls of his shoulders, the contours of his pectorals. Grazes Phillip's nipples with the edges of his teeth. Traverses lower, nipping, sucking, and biting possessive marks on the ridges of Phillip's hipbones, ever so torturously near the 'v' shaped curve that slopes toward Phillip's groin. His incisors are sharp, and his teeth prick and incite small flares of pain where they apply pressure to Phillip's skin.

But, he is mindful not to bite down _hard_. Not to draw blood. As if he doesn't want to hurt Phillip.

As if he can't see that Phillip _deserves_ to be hurt.

"P-P.T.," Phillip murmurs between breathy, panting gasps.

"Hm?" Barnum hums into his skin.

"Why aren't you…?" Phillip lets the remainder of that question fade off into oblivion, and opts to rephrase. "You aren't hurting me," he states. Direct. Brusque.

"Do…?" Barnum sits upright to meet Phillip's eyes with his own, and the bewildered _shock_ flooding those hazel pools is unmistakable. "Do you _want_ me to hurt you?"

The question ruins something deep inside of Phillip, twists it further into mangled knots, breaks and chips at a wall that was painstakingly erected to hold back, to _conceal_ so many things that the world was never meant to see. Phillip's thundering breaths choke him, his chest heaving with need for air as water, once again, closes over his head. He can see his father approaching him, hear the leathery snap of a belt, relives crouching, cowering, curling his child, then, adolescent, body into the tiniest ball he could manage, arms up in front of his face to shield it from the worst of the blows, broken pleas falling from his lips.

_"Father, no._ Stop _._ Please _. I'll never do it again. I_ swear _. I've learned my place. I know my place."_

He only realizes that these bitter memories seeping out of the darkest corners of his mind to perfuse and taint and batter the forefront of it, have provoked an outward reaction, when he is drawn into Barnum's chest, feels the man's strong arms around him, the plush lining of his crimson coat enveloping the both of them.

Phillip coaches himself to _breathe, for God's sake_ , and can't help but press his nose to Barnum's clavicle, inhaling the man's scent to tether himself here, in the present, in his partner's embrace and worlds away from his father. To make the outbreak of tremors over the length of his body subside.

"I'm not sure what you were _taught_ , or _told_ , but this isn't supposed to hurt, Phillip," Barnum says softly. "Not unless you want it to."

"I… don't. I don't want it to… " Phillip gulps in another quavering breath. _I_ deserve _to experience pain, not pleasure_ , he tells himself. _But… I don't_ wish _to_.

Something, a bond, a chain, the bars of a cage, _snaps_ , and Phillip nuzzles the hollow of Barnum's throat, accepting, embracing, _affirming_ to himself that he won't cave to the demands of desolation and the vitriol- _undue_ vitriol- that he has aimed at himself for most of his adult life.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that." The low, relieved breath of laughter that vibrates in Barnum's chest as it traverses up his throat is comforting, even with the hint of sadness accompanying the words that follow it. "I don't believe I have the heart to brutalize such a breathtaking, achingly beautiful canvas of flesh and muscle."

The "to brutalize _you_ ", goes unsaid, but the manner in which Barnum holds Phillip, the brush of his lips against Phillip's forehead and hairline, voices it, all the same.   

Unbalancing pang in his chest, Phillip feels his mouth twist into a rueful, acerbic mockery of a smile. "After that shameful display… how can you still think me beautiful?"

Barnum tilts his head down to look into Phillip's eyes as best he can with their bodies entwined. "Even people the world deems broken are deserving of love, Phillip," he says softly, with as much sobering, unwavering conviction as Phillip has ever seen from him. "Forget the lies your father has fed you."

"I… suppose you might know something about that."

"I do, actually. Especially _now_."

Phillip stares searchingly into Barnum's dark eyes, wishing he had the right words, the seemingly effortless mastery of the English language that Barnum wields so deftly. How could he ever possibly express that he has never felt so much, so deeply for another person?

"So, what do you want, Phillip?"

"I…" It takes but a moment for the answer to come to him, thrumming and pulsing within his chest. "I want you to take me, Phineas," Phillip declares, his voice just above a whisper. He continues to stare into the entrancing dark pools of Barnum's eyes from underneath of his long, black lashes, his skin sparking, once more, with flames of unmitigated _need_ that aches, begging, pleading, wanting, craving from his core to his very marrow, and finally has direction. "Take me, and fill me like I've never been filled before. Make me yours so I'll never forget it as long as I live."

Barnum's pupils blow wide with desire ravenous enough to match Phillip's need. Of course stroking his insatiable ego elicits such a response. Or, perhaps, he wants Phillip as madly as Phillip wants him.

A low, feverish growl rumbling in his throat, Barnum captures Phillip's mouth in a consuming, passionate kiss, _claiming_ it. His tongue slides between Phillip's lips, tangling with Phillip's tongue and swiping eagerly over Phillip's teeth and the soft, fleshy interior of Phillip's cheeks.

Phillip moans into the kiss. Soft, but unfettered.

As he separates their mouths, Barnum ventures lower, licking and kissing instead of _biting_. At the hollow of Phillip's throat, presses another kiss to the mostly faded burn marking Phillip's left pectoral, teases the buds of Phillip's nipples.

Phillip squirms under him, his pulse pounding in his temples as his skin continues to heat up. _This_ , he realizes, is what he wants. Craves so profoundly. _Needs_. Phineas Barnum _all over him_ , making pleasure pool in the southernmost region of his abdomen and undulate through the whole of his being. Making him feel wanted.

He drags the pads of his fingers down Barnum's arms and chest as he takes his own lower lip between his teeth, biting down on it with a chant of _yes, yes, yes, please, yes_ flooding his mind.

Barnum returns from the planes and valleys of skin below Phillip's navel to nip at the curve of Phillip's jawbone. Roguish grin tugging at his mouth, eyes gleaming with sureness, confidence, he skims his fingernails over Phillip's chest, working his way down Phillip's torso and abdominal muscles, and leaving pink trails in his wake. When his left hand reaches Phillip's hips, the silver band on his ring finger, once ice cold, painfully so, against Phillip's skin, is now _warm_. Warmed by the rising temperature of the room, their enmeshed bodies.

It's almost as hot as Barnum's hand. Which Phillip wants to feel roaming and exploring every inch of him.

Barnum bends over Phillip, keeping his hips a carefully calculated distance away from the heat flaming between Phillip's legs, and extends his right hand toward Phillip's face. "Care to offer me a little assistance, Phil?"

Phillip regards the appendage with brief confusion, until the dark promise in Barnum's eyes spears him clean through with understanding, and a fresh wave of arousal.

Even a few months prior, Phillip would have scoffed off the mere idea of willingly taking another man's- or a woman's- fingers into his mouth. It would have repulsed him; seeing no reason to put anything into his mouth that he wasn't intent on ingesting.

When Barnum rests his first two fingers on Phillip's lips, however, Phillip takes his first step from the cage and grants them access. Under that fixated, impossibly dark stare, he scrapes and winds his tongue over the long, callused digits without needing to be instructed to do so, his skin heating with lust and sweat trickling down his breastbone at the soft, pleased grunts the suction of his mouth and thick, lapping heat of his tongue incite from Barnum.

"Thank you," Barnum murmurs, the corners of his mouth quirking into _that smirk_ as he slides his fingers, slick and glistening, from Phillip's mouth. Holding Phillip's gaze, he reaches between Phillip's legs.

" _Phineas_ ," Phillip breathes, astonished that he is still able to, as moist fingers trail and circle his most intimate cleft of skin.

"I won't hurt you unless you want me to," Barnum whispers, and it's reassuring enough to get Phillip through the unfamiliar and vaguely painful sensation of being entered for the first time.

Phillip sucks in a breath through his teeth, jaw set as he adjusts to having something inside of him, accessing his most taboo of cavities.

Barnum can tell, in that vexing way that he does, that this is Phillip's first time. "You're _so_ _tight_ , Phillip," he assesses- _marvels_ \- breathlessly, intensifying the heat under Phillip's skin to a temperature just under boiling, magma. "So wonderfully, _beautifully tight_." As if to emphasize this assessment, his two slick, saliva-moistened fingers begin probing expertly inside of Phillip, working him open, stretching him as they flex, curl, and bend.

Staggered, staccato pants broken by gasps flow out of Phillip with each skilled motion of the ringmaster's hand.

"Yeah," Barnum murmurs, his features intent, charged with adrenaline, and something that Phillip would almost label awe. "Shit, I can _feel_ it. No other man has ever had you like this. And I'm _tremendously_ pleased to be the first."

"Ph-Phin-- !"  Phillip gasps. A moan manages to slip out of him, as well, and he flushes horribly with it, down his neck, to the top of his chest.

"The sounds you make are sweeter than any choir. Any sixty piece orchestra," Barnum murmurs reverently. Slowly, he begins to thrust his digits in and out of Phillip, and Phillip starts to understand what it means to be _fucked_ in a way that men would gladly sign over their lives and sell their souls to experience.

He grabs at the beautifully extravagant and excessive coat, clutching handfuls of the satiny material as pleasure and need take him over.

"You like that?" Barnum asks, growling softly, pleased.

" _Yes_ ," Phillip breathes. "Yes. I do. I _do_ , so much." His hips gradually, shyly move along with Barnum's fingers, easily adopting their pace. It's a routine, somehow as seamless and polished as any brought into the ring. And, it stokes the flames that Barnum ignited into a small, contained fire.

Barnum noses the inside of Phillip's thigh, his breath ghosting, warm, on the titillated skin, sending shivers dancing up Phillip's spine. "No one else has ever made you feel pleasure like this, have they, darling?"

"No," Phillip answers immediately. "N- _No_ , fuck. Only _you_ , Phin."

Humming, eyes burning with intensity even when half-lidded, Barnum declares in a hot, growling whisper, "And, now that I have you, no one else will _ever_ put their hands on you. To hurt you or otherwise. I'm the _only_ one who has, and will ever have, the _pleasure_ and _privilege_ of fucking you good and proper, the way you deserve, and making you unravel in my hands."

Phillip moans, once more, alarmingly loudly. The excitement pulsing inside of him, brought on by the sheer, unrepentant _possessiveness_ of Barnum's declarations and _his voice_ , concentrating in a throbbing ache at the very tip of his most sensitive and secretive column of flesh- his _cock_. Barnum told him to stop referring to parts of his body with sanitized, ambiguous terms as though his anatomy is something to be embarrassed about. Lips curling, of course, into a smirk, at the withering look a flustered Phillip had cast in his direction- should be _shameful_.

_Would be_ , were Phillip to linger on the shame that he was _taught_ to feel.

Barnum doesn't permit him to do so. He diverts Phillip's thoughts from the rabbit hole they were beginning to tumble down by withdrawing his hand.

The emptiness is unbearable now that Phillip knows the joy of having someone- _Phineas Taylor Barnum_ \- inside of him. "Are you stopping?" He asks, unable to disguise the tremble in his voice. His mind and the diseased miasma blanketing it demand that he be hurt, punished as it feels he deserves. But, bringing him to the cusp of unfathomable pleasure, only to spin him about, one-hundred eighty degrees, and leave him staggering blindly and aching with a need near to being fulfilled, might just be more torturous than Phillip can bear. It would be despicable, a bastard move even for a man whose reputation and livelihood are built on deceit.

"No, not stopping. Why, that would be positively absurd." Barnum flashes Phillip a grin, reassuring in its smugness. Appealing. Flooding and infusing Phillip's heart with warmth. _This_ is the man who _saved_ him, who owns _him_ in so many ways, and his _heart_ in totality.

P.T. Barnum and his eccentric and enormous presence, power, and passion. On top of Phillip, dominating him with ease, promising him things that no one else could ever give him.

It's _natural_ , and _right_ , like scattered pieces falling into the places they were always meant to be.

"Don't worry, darling," Barnum croons. The solid muscle of his chest is equal parts welcome _and tantalizing_ against Phillip's as he leans over him to whisper hotly, wickedly against the shell of his ear, brushing the soft cartilage with his lips and teeth, "I know _exactly_ what you need, and I'm going to give it to you _exactly_ the way you need it."

Phillip has no time to process this pledge, or the vise of searing arousal it clamps around his lower half, or the jolt of throbbing, volcanic heat surging through him, beyond moaning wordlessly.

His eyes fixed searingly on Phillip, Barnum licks his palm, then spits into it.

A lewd, wet sound meets Phillip's ears, and his stomach twists into burning knots of arousal. He clenches at the blankets underneath of him, acknowledging, just faintly, that they'll need a good washing, after--

Hands grip his hips, and Barnum _lunges_ forward, smoothly breaching Phillip with a shock of pain that transfigures with some wincing, breathy whines, and the aid of kisses feathered over Phillip's brows, cheeks, and neck, into a pleasurable sensation.

It hits Phillip, then. P.T Barnum is _inside of him Truly inside of him._ Their bodies are _joined_ , no walls or boundaries, or _clothes_ to stop them, and-- _oh_.

Oh, good fucking _God_.

Phillip gasps, _rapturously_. _Rapture_ floods every one of his senses in swells of molten heat. His heart races in time with the breaths fluttering against his throat, and he arches into Barnum, interlacing his fingers with the older man's where Barnum's hands hold fast to his hips. "Ohh, _Christ_ that feels _good_ ," streams from his mouth in the form of a full, liquid moan.

"Good, Phillip," Barnum purrs, leaning over Phillip to plant an open-mouthed kiss right above his collarbone. "That's _exactly_ how it's supposed to feel." Phillip clenches around him, not quite intending to, and Barnum twitches his hips, growling, low, appreciative, amorous. " _Fuck_ , you're so hot, so incredible. You feel like velvet around me. The tightest, most celestial of velvets."

Descriptive terms that Phillip never could have _imagined_ being applied to him. Silvery words so perfectly _Barnum_ , he cannot envision them being and does not _want_ them to be applied by anyone other than this man and his paradoxically gravelly and mellifluous baritone.

Barnum gives Phillip a generous moment to prepare himself before he begins to move. His tempo is slow and gentle as before, because he doesn't want to hurt Phillip. Because he believes that Phillip _deserves_ different, more, _better._

 And, the sensation is already _indescribable_. Bliss ripples out from the point of contact, where Phillip Carlyle and Phineas Taylor Barnum are joined, and traverses in electric currents over every inch, every pore, every molecule that comprises Phillip's being. Bliss ample and abundant enough to efface the urge to make himself hurt because pain and misery and numbing, gaping emptiness is all that he knows.

_Knew_.

Before P.T. Barnum.

Warmth fans over Phillip's heart, his body vibrating and _singing_ with _euphoria_ the more Barnum moves within him. His senses are heightened, and he's intensely receptive to _everything_. The heat of Barnum's skin. The perspiration slicking their chests. The impossible heat, length, girth filling him. The aroma of sex. The near bruising pressure of Barnum's hands on his hips as the ringmaster is enveloped and saturates everything that Phillip knows in his essence. His overpowering, inescapable essence.

In this moment, there isn't a hollow or empty nook left anywhere within Phillip Carlyle.

Phillip murmurs, "Shit, you're amazing, Phineas. So big, so much, so…" He trails off with a gasp, raising his hips off the bed to meet his partner, panting, whines and moans swelling at the back of his throat, ready to cascade out of him. "Keep going. _Please_."

Barnum obliges with his upper lip pulling back from his teeth to form that damn open-mouthed smirk, his trademark, and another horrifically flustered and _delighted_ gasp flows from Phillip's mouth as he squeezes at Barnum's fingers, trying to spread himself that little bit farther.

He wants- _fuck_ , he wants more. Wants _everything_. All remnants of his parents and their precious legacy wiped right out of existence as P.T. Barnum brings him to a state of bliss. Absolute carnal bliss.   

The World's Greatest Showman responds to that gasp by honing in on the needs that Phillip will not, _cannot_ voice.

Just as he always does.

He adds a steady stream of fuel to the fire he has started, his rhythm building, climbing, faster and harder until he is pounding unceasingly into his partner.

"Oh God, _please_ ," Phillip beseeches Barnum, a higher power, entities he's never heard of, his body wracked with torrents of ecstasy as waves upon waves of pleasure sweep him up in currents he could never dream of fighting. "It's so good. Why does it-- ? I-I don't-- God, _Phineas_ , _you're_ _so_ \-- !" He cries out, arching ever further up, spreading his legs wide as he can to take all of the man on top of him, addicted. " _Fu~uuck_. Don't stop, Phin. Don't stop, don't stop, _please_ ," he pants against Barnum's lips, whimpering and writhing and holding on to his partner with everything he has.

Low moan shuddering in his throat, Barnum rests his mouth against the corner of Phillip's. "So needy and desperate for me, aren't you?" He whispers, and Phillip feels a small smile playing on Barnum's lips.

Phillip would argue if he had the mind about him.

If it wasn't completely true.

What he does, instead, is let an unbridled moan ascend from his chest and sail out of his mouth.

"Yeah," Barnum husks, his accent heavier, more pronounced as desire, weighty and roiling, permeates his voice. "Keep-- _God_ , keep making those sounds, Phillip. Letting out those beautiful, ab~so~lutely _obscene_ moans. Tell me how good it feels. Take it all."

"I will," Phillip promises, feverish with the same thick, sweltering, all-encompassing desire. "I will. I'll take it, want it-- Ohhh." Another moan wells in his throat and flows unhindered past his lips. " _Phineas_."

Barnum takes Phillip's mouth into a deep kiss that Phillip returns in earnest. Their lips crash together in sloppy, wanton, zealous eddies with riptides of grazing and nipping teeth. Barnum shifts his hips while their mouths work in tandem, groaning softly against Phillip's parted lips, and the adjustment allows him to slip, somehow, even _further_ in, up to the hilt. Burying himself inside of Phillip completely.

A jolt of pure, uninhibited, unadulterated pleasure cuts through Phillip, burning hot and brighter than a bolt of lightning. He never, ever could have fantasized this, _feeling like this,_ in his most twisted and depraved dreams. Feeling such a lush and copious abundance of _anything_ that wasn't crushing misery. And, oh, how he relishes and _revels_ in it now that it's his.

He revels in being filled. In being claimed. Deflowered. Torn asunder and restructured from the ground up.

Wanted. Desired. _Loved_ _so deeply_.

Moans continue to spill from his lips as he tangles his fingers in the mess of dark curls on the back of Barnum's head, pouring and streaming out of him and into Barnum's mouth, and Barnum drinks all of them in, pulling away only to replenish his air-supply and let out his own steady stream of pleased groans.

Those waves of unbelievable pleasure rise higher and higher, past Phillip's chest, collect behind his eyes. Barnum is touching something deep inside of him, coaxing, tending to, nurturing, and rousing it the way that only he can, and Phillip is _alive_ , fully, irrefutably _alive_ , and he swims in ecstasy, joy coursing dizzily through him, tingling, addictive, ineffable. He pushes his face into the material clothing Barnum's shoulder, clinging tight to the showman and giving him everything he has. "Phin, ohhh. _Please_. So good. _More_. Phin, Phin," he pleads amidst the cries and bliss-filled gasps filling the air around them. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Not born from _despair_ , but…

Barnum presses kisses to Phillip's neck, a satisfied, desperate sound reverberating in his chest and morphing into a groan as it ascends. "That's it," he encourages, the deep timbre of his voice laced with tremors, pants. "Let it take you over." He drives into Phillip with all of the force and desperation that he clung to him with the night of the fire, failing to contain a moan, and Phillip cries out, fumbling hands slipping and scrabbling under the coat to seek purchase on the blazing skin beneath.

"Oh, Phillip." Barnum moans. " _Phillip._ Fuck, you take me so well. You're _breathtaking_. Beauty unrivaled by anything I've ever seen." He nuzzles into the ridge of Phillip's cheekbone, and the full of his length pushes into Phillip, stroking against a nerve bundled up inside a place that Phillip never _dared_ to look.

Immediately, stars dance, blinding, before Phillip's eyes. Fire and flames and freedom _devour_ him as they pour from Barnum's eyes and reach their zenith. He winds his legs around Barnum's waist, desperate, so shamelessly, unrepentantly _desperate_ to have Barnum close to him. To have their skin and sinew, and tissue, fibres, and atoms touching as much as possible. To no longer know where one of them ends and the other begins. His cry is so close to a _scream_. "Phi _ii_ neas!"

" _Yes_ ," Barnum growls, his voice steeped in approval, triumph, shaking and unsteady as he ascends, higher, nearing the height he's taking Phillip to. Phillip can feel it in the erratic rhythm of his thrusts, the shudders rippling through the ribs and firm, angular peaks and planes of muscle on his back.

Barnum hits that oh-so sensitive and remarkable spot again and again, over and over, feeding the blaze roaring in Phillip's ears and pushing him closer, closer, closer to a just discernible edge. "You're mine, Phillip," he breathes, enveloping Phillip as he covers him, bringing their bodies close as Phillip _needs_ , the immensity of that _need_ earth-shattering.  "Damn right, you're mine, alive and _mine_. Entirely and _only mine_."

"Yes," Phillip murmurs, dazed, and intoxicated and full of love, and need, and pleasure, and--. "I'm yours, Phin. I'm yours, I'm-- "  His voice breaks suddenly, a cry wrested from his very core. "Aah, Phin, _please_ \-- it's so good!" He's nearly frightened by the intense gush of weighted heat and ecstasy ready to _burst_ within him; injected like opiates straight into his veins by Barnum. He feels _so_ _loved_ and _wanted_ and _full_ and _complete_ , he's fearful that it's _too much_. That it may legitimately kill him. "I-- Phin. God. _Phineas_ , I'm going to-- "

"There you go," Barnum whispers, coaxes- encouraging, soothing, easing Phillip's fear. "That's it. Fuck, that's it. Come undone for me."

Phillip clings tighter, still, tears spilling over, pressing one hand into the ringmaster's right shoulder blade so hard that he's sure he is leaving fingerprints destined to become bruises, and the other venturing out of the glorious coat to bury itself in Barnum's thick waves of soft, dark hair, fingers curling into the roots with unintended force.

But. Phillip _needs_ Barnum, needs him close, _so close_ \- to hold, to anchor him, to keep him alive and breathing as he feels himself absolutely unraveling at the seams.

"P.T.," he cries out, the rest of his vocabulary stolen from him, rendering him unable to say anything more than Barnum's name over and over again. "Phin. _Phin-e-as_!"

Barnum's breathing is distinctly ragged as he noses into Phillip's hair where it's trimmed neatly around the shell of Phillip's ear. The only bit of Phillip's hair, of _Phillip_ , that is still neat and put together. "Phillip, Phil. _Ohh_ ," he moans. "Beautiful, stunning, _perfect_ Phillip. You're close, now. _So close_. Don't fight it, darling. Come to the other side with me."

There is nothing else Phillip _can_ do.

His body locks as he plunges off the edge of that summit with a wordless cry of pure euphoria, smoldering into ashes that sink to be scattered and dissolved in a vast and bottomless sea.

Barnum falls right behind him.

Their interweaving moans reverberate throughout the room as supernovas explode behind Phillip's eyes. Barnum's name erupts from him- " _Phin_!"- a feverish sob, a plea, a prayer, then, eyes locked, he and his partner come undone together, fully, utterly, swept away and quaking with the intensity of the aftershocks.

Unwinding. Unraveling.

Barnum's formidable and tantalizing strength gives out as he buckles against Phillip, and both of them slump back onto the bed, wholly and completely spent.

Phillip's arms shake as he lifts them to embrace the older man. He sobs, then, so overwhelmingly, impossibly _happy_ , he _could_ die.

The still air around them is laced with the sounds of their rapid breaths and Phillip's quiet hiccuping sobs as they lie on the enormous bed, lax and boneless and entangled in one another.

Gradually, Phillip's heartbeat winds down and his overwhelmed sobs begin to subside as Barnum runs his fingers through his hair, caressing his scalp and kissing his brow and his hairline.

"Shh, it's all right. You're all right," Barnum breathes. His eyes glow with enough affection to make Phillip want to weep. He settles down beside Phillip, and Phillip curls, automatically, against Barnum's chest, arms winding around him, trembling and overcome as he nuzzles the hollow of his lover's throat.

He feels vulnerable, his body dissected, flayed, his insides put on display for Barnum to scrutinize with his penetrating stare. But, he simultaneously feels safe and very, very much alive, even as a fog of comfortable exhaustion descends on his mind. "P.T.," he whispers. "Phineas, Phin, I… "

Barnum's callused thumbs brush against Phillip's cheeks, wiping his tears away. He presses a tender kiss to Phillip's temple and the scar from the one major injury that Phillip sustained during the fire. The blemish on his face, near to, but not enough to be hidden by his hairline. One that would have been labelled disfiguring in the world that Phillip left behind.

The reverent touch of Barnum's lips suggests that he prizes this scar as much as every other facet of Phillip. 

"How was it?" He asks.

"Lying with a man, for the first time?" Phillip asks when he recovers his voice, at last. "Or lying with you?"

Barnum flashes him a toothy smirk. "Take your pick."

"Well… " Phillip drawls, adopting a mock-serious expression. "Your performance was lacking in quite a few areas."

Barnum's mouth falls open, all traces of smugness vanishing in an instant.

Phillip smiles, then breaks into a full, all-out grin, lazy with satisfied fatigue, and lays a hand on the back of Barnum's neck, drawing him into a kiss. "It was _incredible_ , Phineas," he murmurs, _sincerely_ , when he breaks off. He strokes lovingly through Barnum's soft, thick waves of dark hair, still damp with perspiration. "You being you, how could it ever be anything less?"

"I thought as much." Barnum returns the grin, proud as ever, relief and a sense of achievement enhancing the brightness of his smile a hundred times over. His voice drops to husky tones that vibrate on every inch of Phillip's skin and every wavelength surrounding his heart, and his eyes sparkle devilishly as he gloats, "The sounds coming from your mouth informed me that I was _more_ than successful in satisfying you."

Phillip's blush spreads from his face, to the tips of his ears, and down his neck. "You are absolutely incorrigible."

Barnum chuckles, low and deeply affectionate. "'Incorrigible' is another compliment. If more men were incorrigible, there would be no stopping the dreamers, thinkers, and visionaries."

A soft smile works its way across Phillip's face, spurred by the swell of love in his chest. "Completely," he says, placing a slow, lingering peck on Barnum's lips. "Incorrigible."

Taking Phillip's face into his hands, Barnum runs a thumb over his lower lip. "Perhaps your act has been thievery, all along," he murmurs. To Phillip's look of confusion, he clarifies, golden light warm as honey glowing in his eyes, "You snatched my heart right out of my chest."

Charm and flattery and overly sentimental poeticism. And, _Phillip_ adores it. "I love you, too," he says softly, his heart liquefying in his chest.

Professing his love no longer feels like diving off of a balcony without something- some _one_ \- waiting to catch him as he falls.

Barnum takes Phillip's mouth into another kiss, and Phillip melts into it, relishing the sensation of the older man kissing at his top and bottom lips before just gliding his tongue over them gently, languorously.

Because death, though inevitable and inescapable, cannot touch them, here. It can do no more than tap lightly on the glass of the windows like drops of rain, reminding them of what waits, impending, just beyond their refuge. But, for now, they have plenty of time to linger, to stay, to enjoy and appreciate and devote themselves to each other.

Tenderly, Barnum breaks the kiss with a quiet smacking sound. He presses feather-soft kisses to Phillip's brow-line and the bridge of his nose, and the gentle scrape of his fine layer of stubble floods Phillip's entire being with joy.

His miserable fugue of self-loathing from earlier that day feels like it is years behind him, now.

Phillip brushes his nose and then his lips against the freckle dotted ever so faintly, the curious dot that has fascinated him since he was first able to get a good look at the man in the lighting of the bar, on the apple of Barnum's cheek. "Phin."

"Mm?" Barnum hums.

Touching his forehead to Barnum's, Phillip whispers, "I think… You are the one I was meant to find."

"Phillip, darling, I'm certain _I_ was meant to find _you_."

Phillip may not believe in fanciful ideas such as destiny. He couldn't even imagine having a "destiny" beyond slogging through his miserable life in a liquor-induced daze and drinking himself catatonic to escape that wretchedness for just a few, meager, insignificant hours before ultimately dying by his own hand when he reached the point of being incurably sick of it all.

But, if this man, whom he would unhesitatingly realign every planet and rearrange every star in the cosmos for, believes that they were meant to cross paths, then Phillip could never truly believe anything else.

"I'm immeasurably grateful, and _glad_ that you did. Without you, I would…" Phillip swallows, fresh tears pricking and welling in his eyes as his too full heart spills over. "You are my _herzblut_."

Barnum's eyes positively sparkle. "And you, darling, are mine," he whispers. It's an oath, a vow, and Phillip echoes it with every beat of his heart.

 

.v.

 

Sunrise brings with it a sense of peace and fullness. Phillip stirs to find himself cuddled against Barnum's chest, and breathes in, content to linger here, where he is safe, at home, and happy. He is dozing off, slipping back into the comfortable embrace of sleep, when he feels Barnum nuzzling into his hair and running a stroking hand down his back.

"Morning," Barnum says, his voice scratchy and thick with sleep.

"Morning," Phillip returns. He wants to sleep, to put off the discussion he knows they have to have, and selfishly indulge in this feeling of contentment, but, he knows that neither one of them can evade and skirt around this issue any longer. "Your meeting with Charity, yesterday… "

He feels Barnum tense ever so slightly.

Phillip moves away, just the distance necessary to meet Barnum's eyes. "You never told me how it went. How…"

Barnum sighs. "I told Caroline that I didn't love the show more than her mother. How could I? Charity, and the bond we've shared, is so _very_ precious to me."

Phillip steels himself, willing his heart to stay intact.

"The very idea is preposterous. But…" Barnum goes on. His swallow is audible in the quiet of the room. "There is something, I've realized, that has overtaken my love for her." He fixes an intense stare on Phillip, and the affection glowing in his whisky-colored eyes is stronger than it has ever been.

"You… " Phillip's pulse staggers with incredulity. The corners of his mouth twitch. "Phineas, you don't mean that--"

"I do."

Phillip's mouth goes dry. He cannot think of himself, when he knows all too well the dangers of such an admission. "She…" He croaks, choking on the jagged edges of the unspoken remainder of the question. Hateful epithets being spat out, police, asylums, prison cells--

"Is a _saint_ ," Barnum finishes.

Briefly, Phillip forgets how to breathe.

"She understood, in that mystifying way that women do, and she promised that she will not keep our children from me."

"Y-Your marriage?"

Barnum stumbles, his eyes clouding. "Exists as far as legal documentation and the state are concerned, but, for the two of us…" He doesn't need to go on. Phillip is quite able to infer the rest.

They're silent for several beats, the light rustle of their breathing the only sound to fill the still air. Despite the pain of loss that Barnum undoubtedly feels, and the grief that Phillip feels for him, there is a sensation of tension easing, of deflation, of knots being untangled at last.

"You chose me," Phillip murmurs. Though he phrases it as a statement, it's a question.

"Yes," Barnum answers him without any hesitation.

Phillip's heart stirs. This is everything that he has ever wanted to hear. But, when this confirmation inspires nothing beyond the faintest flutterings of joy, he is reminded that he is _defective_. "Phineas… you…" He swallows and licks at his upper lip in a largely ineffective attempt at lending some moisture to his arid mouth and throat. "You need to know that this disease that afflicts my mind is… It's never going to go away. I'm not even certain there's a cure for it."

He tells himself that he is informing Barnum of the baggage he is taking on in choosing him. Not pushing him away. Not cutting him free. He has never imprisoned Barnum. He _could_ never.

Somehow, the showman still manages to surprise him.

"Of course it isn't," Barnum says. His eyes are as soft and sympathetic as his voice. "When you have scars that deep, they never fully heal. But, Phillip… You are crazy as any one of my ideas if you expect me to give up on you, and allow you to give up on yourself."

"Phin…" Tears spring to Phillip's eyes, and his heart swells against the back of his throat.

"I saved you from that fire, and from that horrid, God damned rope. And I will save you as many more times as I need to. Phillip, you are… " Barnum shifts closer to him, and Phillip can see a film of mist shining over his eyes. "You mean-- My _herzblut_. The blood of my heart."

"I love you," Phillip manages, his voice quavering, overcome by the immensity of his joy. "You ridiculous, extraordinary--"

"You _were_ going to say 'showman', weren't you?" Barnum smiles teasingly, love written all over his face.

Beaming, Phillip brings their mouths together in a joyous kiss. " _My_ showman," he corrects when he breaks off.

Barnum touches his forehead to Phillip's and concurs, "All yours."

 

.v.

 

It is yet another one of Barnum's crazy ideas to take it upon himself to broaden Phillip's horizons. He has decided that this will "take the edge off of" Phillip's misery, "perhaps even eliminate some of it, completely".

Strangely, it does seem to be proving successful in minor ways.

He strong-arms Phillip into accompanying him on a trip to the zoo with Caroline and Helen, begins tutoring Phillip in German and Portuguese, the language that Phillip couldn't identify when he came across it in Barnum's book on astronomy, and is hell-bent on involving Phillip in the show as much as possible, taking great joy in encouraging Anne and W.D. to teach him a "few of their tricks", and delight in watching Phillip fumble and flounder his way through an absolutely mortifying experience on one of the rings the siblings use in their routines.

The squeak that found its way out of Phillip's mouth earned a round of laughter from the three of them that might have made this particular day one of the most embarrassing Phillip has had in recent memory, had Barnum not treated him to another blueberry tart- and a rather _heated_ "discussion" in their office- for his troubles.

Songwriting sessions with Lettie fare much better than Phillip anticipated. He finds joy and fulfillment in writing, once again, as his lyrics bring a smile to Lettie's face and give her the joy of watching her thoughts and feelings come that much closer to being realized in a tangible form. One of ink and paper.

Charles gives him a lesson on how to fire a pistol, which, while thrilling, is something that Phillip has no strong desire to ever do again- the recoil was more than enough to put him off of it, and The Lord of Leeds instructs Phillip in proper application of stage makeup.

For one evening show, Phillip intentionally brushes just a bit too much blush on Barnum's cheeks, and the troupe finds it hysterical when Barnum poses before a mirror in the changing area, admiring how the excessive rosiness flatters his complexion and complements the red of his coat.

There are days, it's likely there always will be, where Phillip cannot will himself to get out of bed, the spell of lethargy over his body too powerful to break, and Barnum never reproaches him for- his laziness, worthlessness, weakness- the hours wasted. He simply stays in the room with Phillip, seated in a chair, or lying on the bed beside him, and reads in comfortable, companionable silence as Phillip dozes off over the pages of his own reading selection, seeks Phillip's input on new acts for the circus when Phillip is awake and lucid enough to challenge him where necessary, and entertains Phillip with more anecdotes that blur the line between fact and fiction in their grandiosity.

Every time Phillip wakes to the sight of Barnum asleep beside him, or in a chair next to the bed, every time Barnum guides Phillip through a bit of choreography for the show, Phillip falls more in love with the notorious showman, and considers that his own survival just may not have been a mistake, after all.

 

.v.

 

Barnum bustles into the office after Phillip has just finished managing the finances, paying bills, and allocating funds for a new addition to the show's ensemble. It's after midnight, approaching one in the morning, and while Phillip is grateful for the pair of strong, warm hands coming down on his shoulders to knead them and work at the tension knotted there, he is wary, as well.

"If this is about the act you proposed…" The one that involves the ringmaster sliding under a baton lined with rows of _flame_ , as if Barnum had a lapse in sanity more extreme than normal, and let slip his mind just how _essential_ his safety is to Phillip, and to every other member of their company.

Said proposal was a point of contention between Phillip and Barnum hours after leaving the circus for their home, Phillip refusing to surrender any ground, even as his mind began to sink into a welcome sleep.

"What?" Barnum sounds genuinely confused. Phillip nearly turns to ask him what his game is, when Barnum insists, "No, no, no. I decided you were right on that."

Phillip raises his brows, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Splendid. That makes two of us."

Barnum grins. His fingers waltz along Phillip's shoulders, down them to dance smooth trails over the lines of Phillip's biceps. "Cheek," he drawls affectionately, sending a smile working its way across Phillip's face. "Constantine is a much better fit for that act, anyway," he continues. "The firelight will shine off the ink of his tattoos, highlighting and better showcasing them."

With a long-suffering sigh, Phillip shakes his head. It's not the total elimination of any act that incorporates even the smallest amount of not safely contained fire near someone's costume, hair, or _person_. Barnum is too devoted to spectacle to remove the mixture of fear, exhilaration, and enchantment that flames incite from their show completely. But, at least he isn't planning on posing any immediate danger to himself.

"No, I wanted to thank you."

Phillip goes stock-still under Barnum's hands.

His mouth running over the shell of Phillip's ear, Barnum elucidates, "Two delightful little birds with voices soft and sweet as silver bells, were quite happy to inform me of a certain letter, signed by one Phillip Carlyle."

Responses catch in Phillip's throat, the temperature of his face rising and the fluttering of wings, lined with feathers long and sleek and elegant as a swan's, brings an all-encompassing warmth to his chest.

Cupping Phillip's chin, Barnum turns Phillip's face to his and stares meaningfully into his eyes. "You truly saved me," he says, breathless with awe and admiration more concentrated and earnest than what Jenny Lind's crowd-pleasing soprano inspired in him.

Phillip refuses to take credit for something so monumental, and prepares to voice his disapproval, only to be reeled into a kiss- soft, but urgent, and passionate, and teeming with gratitude in every movement of Barnum's mouth. His eyes flutter, closing, and he surrenders, permitting himself to indulge, to be appreciated, to know with all of the certainty he knows that winter ends and life waits under the ice and snow, ready to sprout and blossom anew when the sun returns, as it _always_ returns, that he is not only useful, but _needed_.

 

.v.

 

As he lies against Barnum in their bathtub, water splashing gently around them as Barnum takes him in hand and strokes him, layering kisses down his neck and rocking against him, _into_ him, Phillip's body thrums with delight. Insatiable and outstanding.

"Imagine your father's face if he could see you, now," Barnum husks with a pleased lilt. "How humbled and indignant he would be, knowing that his gorgeous son is _thriving,_ and he has no part in it. That you're happy, and successful, and unraveling so _beautifully_ for me in spite of his attempts to cage you up and throw away the key."

Heat washes in a tidal wave over Phillip, splashing the head of his length and sweeping him away. He climaxes with a soft gasp.

Still a disgrace and a scandal who brings shame upon his parentage and tarnishes their good name. And, as he lists, exhausted and so very content, into Phineas Taylor Barnum, lightheaded, breathing in the scents of the fine soaps and shampoos still fresh on their skin and hair, and shivering ecstatically at the feeling of Barnum's hands running down his sides, over his many, many scars, Phillip is alive. Irrefutably. Undeniably.

Alive.

 

.v.

 

The new addition that Phillip set aside funds for is another surprise; one that Phillip introduces Barnum to in the early morning, while the circus is still quiet and at rest.

He removes the blindfold over Barnum's eyes, and steps aside, declaring, "Phineas Barnum, meet Atlas."

Dazed, smile tugging at his mouth as it hangs open, Barnum staggers forward and reaches out, offering his open palm to a black stallion with a long, neatly groomed mane and muscles that ripple beneath a sleek and shining coat.

Atlas nudges into Barnum's open hand, and grinning, brilliantly, beautifully, Barnum strokes the horse's muzzle and laughs, loud and hearty, proclaiming, "He's _magnificent_!"

So _magnificent_ that it's _imperative_ that Atlas be primed and prepared to perform as soon as possible. Phillip need only look at Barnum to know that his partner is dreaming up something big, something spectacular for their show, and while it brings him great joy to see Barnum's vibrance and vitality fully restored, his strides once more long and driven by purpose, every gesture a flourish, Phillip feels left out of the action.

He still longs for a place at Barnum's side, in center ring.

He oversees Constantine's rehearsal of the dreaded "baton stunt", watching as Lettie reaches out to help the tattooed man upright when he completes his slide. On the second run-through, Phillip's pangs of longing are pushed aside and his eyebrows arch as Constantine's face comes perilously close to Lettie's ample bust, and the bearded woman goes a curious pink, turning away, abruptly, to begin fanning herself.

A romantic cliche that Phillip's former audiences would have eaten right up.

Anne meets Phillip's eyes from across the tent, and shoots him a smirk, indicating that she took notice of the _intriguing_ fumble, as well.

Resolving to keep the observed interaction a secret between the two of them, Phillip doesn't notice Barnum's approach until he feels the man's arm around his shoulder. Barnum was just a few feet away, discussing a routine with one of the horse wranglers. His eyes are still gleaming when he sweeps Phillip into his side and declares, "Darling, I have a proposition for you."

 

.v.

 

Constantine assumes the position for his slide, and Barnum turns to tell Phillip, "Here's our cue."

Phillip is nervous. His stomach is clenched tight as the skin over a drum with one of the most intense bouts of stage fright he has ever experienced, and he almost wishes he had his flask on hand to ease his nerves with a shot of whisky. His lifeline that he is slowly but surely releasing to hold to a much stronger, reinforced cable.

But, Barnum is with him, right in front of him, actually, and he has memorized every step of this routine down to the most minute detail.

He can do this. _They_ can do this.

Straightening his top hat, Phillip grabs at the saddle beneath him and steadies himself as Atlas carries the _two_ ringmasters into the center ring, his pace a proud, regal trot.

He is definitely Barnum's horse.

When they've reached the perimeter of the ring, Atlas bounds over it, and, before his front hooves touch the straw and sand lining the floor, Barnum leaps down from the saddle on the left side, Phillip following his lead and jumping down from the right.

The white horses are released, prancing past Atlas as he finishes his landing and rears up on his hind legs.

Praying that neither one of them will get trampled, Phillip races beside Barnum, the two of them weaving their way through the procession of horses, the red and gold of their matching coats shocks of color against the stark white of the horses'; a sight that gets some pleased "oohs" out of the audience.

Barnum's coat fortuitously survived their coupling unscathed. Incredibly fortuitously. Phillip can't imagine even Barnum explaining that stain away without his face taking on a shade half as red as the material his coat is crafted from.

Constantine takes a running start, and Phillip and Barnum diverge, swerving in opposite directions from one another.

The slide is executed flawlessly. Lettie helps Constantine to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion, both of them grinning and exhilarated at their success, and, simultaneously, winded, but not out of breath, Phillip meets up with Barnum at the head of the formation of dancers, where he takes hold of the end of Barnum's cane and lets himself be spun about for half a turn- exactly half a turn- then, releases it, twirling backward, blindly, until Barnum catches him.

He spins into Barnum's chest, exactly where he is supposed to be, right as Lettie's voice, bombastic and pitch-perfect, soars over the music.

 

_And, I know that I deserve your love_

_There is nothing I'm not worthy of_

 

Using the cane, Barnum cages Phillip against his chest, leaving just enough room for Phillip to maneuver out from under it. Together, both of their hands wrapped around an object that once struck fear in Phillip's heart, and is now anchoring him to the man who gave him joy, and love, and a new life filled with purpose, the ringmasters waltz, countering each other's steps and twirling about in small, graceful circles.

Anne and W.D. swing by, raining showers of glitter down on them, and gasps and short bursts of applause sound from the stands.

This is the new act that Barnum devised: The _Traumtänzers_.

The Dreamdancers.

Everything that Phillip never allowed himself to believe that he deserved is right here; dancing and belting out symphonies of beautiful notes around him, and in front of him; peering intently into his eyes and his heart and soul with magnetic hazel eyes sprinkled with flecks of the brightest gold and brimming with adoration. Barnum's smile, charming, roguish, ensnaring, and damningly beautiful, is all for _him_.

Phillip "finally has an act" Carlyle. Phillip "darling, the blood of my heart" Carlyle. Phillip "saved the man that he loves so intensely, madly, and deeply that it aches and steals the breath right out of his lungs and floods every pore and particle of his being with feelings that remind him he's alive" Carlyle. Phillip "a freak who has found a home at last" Carlyle.

" _Sehnsucht_ ," Phillip murmurs.

"The longing addiction," Barnum replies, offering an answer that Phillip didn't realize he needed.

Knowing they are surrounded by their family, and shielded from the eyes of spectators who may not take kindly to the rapidly decreasing distance between them, Phillip tilts his head up to peer into Barnum's eyes… and bring their faces closer together.

"I like that," Phillip says. "A longing addiction. I… I want to keep longing for things. Keep longing for you. If I'm not longing, wanting for something, I might as well be dead."

"Comfort," Barnum muses, showman's smile in full-effect. "The enemy of progress." The very words he once used to chip at Phillip's walls.

Phillip laughs, conceding that he has, indeed, lost his mind; falling for a man with the arrogance and bold-faced audacity to quote himself.

They step lightly out of the ring, the sounds of the circus fading, pleasantly muffled.

"Darling." Barnum moves one hand from the cane to place it on the nape of Phillip's neck, rubbing gently at it. "From the night we met, all I ever wanted for you was to see you wanting more for yourself. If I could give you that, then… I believe I've finally proved my worth."

Phillip ducks his head, suddenly shy about the enormity of everything that Barnum makes him feel.

Another half-twirl and time seems to stand still around them.

"You still need me, though?" Phillip asks, and maybe _it_ is pathetic, needing validation, but… so, he's realized, is seeking a solution to, and, without mincing words, an escape _from_ , your troubles in the bottom of a bottle.

Barnum brushes the end of his nose against Phillip's, causing Phillip to lift his head to lean into the gentle touch. "Always," he assures him. No false promises, no glamorous, glossy veneer.

Empowered by his sincerity, Phillip dares to pull Barnum into a kiss. They've managed to maneuver into the shadows beyond the stands, so there is no risk of being seen. No danger, no threat to their lives, or their safety, or their happiness.

So, Phillip has no fears and no reservations. He arches forward, grabbing at the shoulders of Barnum's coat, deepening the kiss with a swipe of tongue, and grins when he feels Barnum's hands under his thighs, lifting him and securing his legs tight around his waist.

Pleased with himself for his ingenuity, Barnum grins right back, bracing the two of them against a wall so they can continue to kiss at their leisure while the show goes on, ten or so feet away.

Phillip's condition may not ever be cured, his misery and emptiness never truly quelled. But, he is alive, and as long as he gives himself a chance, as long as he has this new part to play, he will not sink and he will not drown. He'll float, he'll fly, and he will thrive- _home_ and _free_ , at last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has been an undertaking. My sleep schedule is the most out of whack I believe it's ever been. But, I wanted to give this tale a conclusion that it, and my always wonderful readers deserve. 
> 
> Thank all of you so very, very, very much for your continued support and comments that instill my writing with meaning and purpose. I don't know what I would do without you.


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